Something Borrowed
by GlamaHart32
Summary: Megan is best friends with A.J. Lee and they have been since they were young. At a party one night, Megan introduces her best friend to Seth Rollins. They hit it off and become engaged. The night of Megan's birthday gets out of hand, and she makes a a huge drunken mistake.
1. Chapter 1

One

I was in the fifth grade the first time I thought about turning thirty. My best friend A.J. and I came across a perpetual calendar in the back of the phone book, where you could look up any date in the future, and by using this little grid determine what the day of the week would be. So we located our birthdays in the following year, mine in May and hers in September. I got Wednesday, a school night. She got a Friday. A small victory, but typical. A.J. was always the lucky one. Her skin tanned more quickly, her hair feathered more easily, and she didn't need braces. Her moonwalk was superior; as were her cartwheels and her front handsprings (I couldn't do a handspring at all). She had a better sticker collection. More Michael Jackson pins. Forenza sweaters in turquoise, red, AND peach (my mother allowed me none- said they were too trendy and expensive). And a pair of fifty-dollar Guess jeans with zippers at the ankles (ditto). A.J. had double-pierced ears and a sibling-even if it was just a brother, it was better than being an only child as I was.

But at least I was a few months older and she would never quite catch up. That's when I decided to check out my thirtieth birthday-in a year so far away that it sounded like science fiction. It fell on a Sunday, which meant that my dashing husband and I would secure a responsible babysitter for our two (possibly three) children on that Saturday evening, dine at a fancy French restaurant with cloth napkins, and stay out past midnight, so technically we would be celebrating my actual birthday. I would have just won a big case-somehow proven that an innocent man didn't do it. And my husband would toast me: "To Megan, my beautiful wife, the mother of my children, and the finest lawyer in Indy." I shared my fantasy with A.J. as we discovered that her thirtieth birthday fell on a Monday. Bummer for her. I watched her purse her lips as she processed this information.

"You know, Megan, who cares what day of the week we turn thirty?" she said, shrugging a smooth, olive shoulder. "We'll be old by then. Birthdays don't matter when you get that old."

I thought of my parents, who were in their thirties, and their lackluster approach to their own birthdays. My dad had just given my mom a toaster for her birthday because ours broke the week before. The new one toasted four slices at a time instead of just two. It wasn't much of a gift, but my mom had seemed pleased enough with her new appliance; nowhere did I detect the disappointment that I felt when my Christmas stash didn't quite meet expectations. So A.J. was probably right. Fun stuff like birthdays wouldn't matter as much by the time we reached thirty.

The next time I really thought about being thirty was our senior year in high school, when A.J. and I started watching the show _Thirtysomething _together. It wasn't one of our favorites-we preferred cheerful sitcoms like _Who's the Boss? _and _Growing Pains_- but we watched it anyway. My big problem with _Thirtysomething_ was the whiny characters and their depressing issues that they seemed to bring upon themselves. I remember thinking that they should grow up, suck it up. Stop pondering the meaning of life and start making grocery lists. That was back when I thought my teenage years were dragging and my twenties would surely last forever.

Then I reached my twenties. And the early twenties did seem to last forever. When I heard acquaintances a few years older lament the end of their youth. I felt smug, not yet in the danger zone myself. I had plenty of time. Until about age twenty-seven, when the days of being carded were long gone and I began to marvel at the sudden acceleration of years (reminding myself of my mother's annual monologue as she pulled out our Christmas decorations) and the accompanying lines and stray gray hairs. At twenty-nine the real dread set in, and I realized that in a lot of ways I might as well be thirty. But not quite. Because I could still say that I was in my twenties. I still had something in common with college seniors.

I realize thirty is just a number, that you're only as old as you feel and all of that. I also realize that in the grand scheme of things, thirty is still young. But it's not that young. It is past the most ripe, prime childbearing years, for example. It is too old to, say; start training for an Olympic medal. Even in the best die-of-old-age scenario, you are still about one-third of the way to the finish line. So I can't help feeling uneasy as I perch on an overstuffed maroon couch in a dark lounge on the Upper West Side at my surprise birthday party, organized by A.J., who is still my best friend.

Tomorrow is the Sunday that I first contemplated as a fifth-grader playing with our phone book. After tonight my twenties will be over, a chapter closed forever. The feeling I have reminds me of New Year's Eve, when the countdown is coming and I'm not quite sure whether to grab my camera or just live in the moment. Usually I grab the camera and later regret it when the picture doesn't turn out. Then I feel enormously let down and think to myself that the night would have been more fun if it didn't mean quite so much, if I weren't forced to analyze where I've been and where I'm going.

Like New Year's Eve, tonight is an ending and a beginning. I don't like endings and beginnings. I would always prefer to churn about in the middle. The worst thing about this particular end (of my youth) and the beginning (of middle age) is that for the first time in my life, I realize that I don't know where I'm going. My wants are simple: a job that I like and a guy whom I love. And on the eve of my thirtieth, I must face that I'm 0 for 2.

First, I am an attorney at a large New York firm. By definition this means that I am miserable. Being a lawyer just isn't what it's cracked up to be-it's nothing like _L.A. Law, _the show that caused applications to law schools to skyrocket in the early nineties. I work excruciating hours for a mean-spirited, anal-retentive partner, doing mostly tedious tasks, and that sort of hatred for what you do for a living begins to ship away at you. So I have memorized the mantra of the law-firm associate:_ I hate my job and will quit soon. _Just as soon as I think of something else to do that will pay the rent. Or find someone who will pay it for me.

Which brings me to my second point: I am alone in a city of millions. I have plenty of friends, as proven by the solid turnout tonight. Friends to Rollerblade with. Friends to summer with in the Hamptons. Friends to meet on a Thursday night after wok for a drink or two or three. And I have A.J., my best friend from home, who is all of the above. But everybody knows that friends are not enough, although I often claim they are just to save face around my married and engaged girlfriends. I did not plan on being alone in my thirties, even my early thirties. I wanted a husband by now; I wanted to be a bride in my twenties. But I have learned that you can't just create your own timetable and will it to come true. So here I am on the brink of a new decade, realizing that being alone makes my thirties daunting, and being thirty makes me feel more alone.

The situation seems all the more dismal because my oldest and best friend has a glamorous PR job and is freshly engaged. A.J is till the lucky one. I watch her now, telling a story to a group of us, including her fiancé. Seth and A.J. is an exquisite couple, lean and tall with matching dark hair and green eyes. They are among New York's beautiful people. The well-groomed couple registering for fine china and crystal on the sixth floor at Bloomingdale's. You hate their smugness but can't resist staring at them when you're on the same floor searching for a not-too-expensive gift for the umpteenth wedding you've been invited to without a date. You strain to glimpse her ring, and are instantly sorry you did. She catches you staring and gives you a disdainful once-over. You wish you hadn't worn your tennis shoes to Bloomingdale's. She is probably thinking that the footwear may be part of your problem. You buy your Waterford vase and get the hell out of there.

"So the lesson here is: if you ask for a Brazilian bikini wax, make sure you specify. Tell them to leave a landing strip or else you can wind up hairless like a ten-year-old!" A.J. finishes her bawdy tale and everybody laughs. Except Seth, who shakes his head, as if to say, what a piece of work my fiancé is.

"Okay. I'll be right back," A.J. suddenly says. "Tequila shots for one and all!"

As she moves away from the group toward the bat, I think to all of the birthdays we have celebrated together, all of the benchmarks we reached together, benchmarks that I always reached first. I got my driver's license before she did, could drink legally before she could. Being older, if only by a few months, used to be a good thing. But now our fortunes have reversed. A.J. has an extra summer in her twenties-a perk of being born in the fall. Not that it matters as much for her; when you're engaged or married, turning thirty just isn't the same thing.

A.J. is now leaning over the bar, flirting with the twenty-something aspiring actor/bartender whom she has already told me she would "totally do" if she were single. As if A.J. would ever be single. She said once in high school, "I don't break up, I trade up." She kept her word on that, and she always did the dumping. Throughout our teenage years, college, and every day of our twenties, she has been attached to someone. Often she has more than one guy hanging around, hoping.

It occurs to me that I could hook up with the bartender. I am totally unencumbered-haven't even been on a date in nearly two months. But it doesn't seem like something one should do at age thirty. One-night stands are for girls in their twenties. Not that I would know. I have followed an orderly, Goody Two-shoes path with no deviations. I got straight As in high school, went to college, graduated magna cum laude, took the LSAT, went straight to law school and to a big law firm after that. No backpacking in Europe, no crazy stories, no unhealthy, lustful relationships. No secrets. No intrigue. And now it seems too late for any of that. Because that stuff would just further delay my goal of finding a husband, settling down, having children and a happy home with grass and a garage and a toaster that toasts four slices at once.

So I feel unsettled about my future and somewhat regretful about my past. I tell myself that there will be time to ponder tomorrow. Right now I will have fun. It is the sort of thing that a disciplined person can simply decide. And I am exceedingly disciplined-the kind of child who did her homework on Friday afternoons right after school, the kind of woman (as of tomorrow, I am no longer any part girl) who flosses every night and makes her bed every morning.

A.J. returns with the shots but Seth refuses his, so A.J. insists that I do two. Before I know it, the night starts to take on that blurry quality, when you cross over from being buzzed to drunk, losing track of time and the precise ordering of things. Apparently, A.J. has reached that point even sooner because she is now dancing on the bar. Spinning and gyrating in a little red halter dress and three-inch heels.

"Stealing the show at your party," Natalya, my closest friend from work, says to me under her breath. "She's shameless."

I laugh. "Yeah. Par for the course."

A.J. let's out a yelp, claps her hands over her head, and beckons me with a come-hither expression that would appeals to any man who had ever fancied girl-on-girl action. "Megan! Megan! C'mere!"

Of course she knows that I will not join her. I have never danced on a bar. I wouldn't know what to do up there besides fall. I shake my head and smile, a polite refusal. We all wait for her next move, which is to swivel her hips in perfect time to the music, bend over slowly, and then whip her body upright again, her long hair spilling every which way. The limber maneuver reminds me of her perfect imitation of Tawny Kitaen in the Whitesnake video "Here I Go Again," how she used to roll around doing splits on the hood of her father's BMW, to the delight of the pubescent neighborhood boys. I glance at Seth, who in these moments can never quite decide whether to be amused or annoyed. To say that the man has patience is an understatement. Seth and I have this in common.

"Happy Birthday, Megan!" A.J. yells. "Let's all raise a glass to Megan!"

Which everyone does, without taking their eyes off her.

A minute later, Seth whisks her down from the bar, slings her over his shoulder, and deposits her on the floor next to me in one fluid motion. Clearly he has done this before. "All right," he announces. "I'm taking our little party-planner home."

A.J. plucks her drink off the bar and stamps her foot. "You're not the boss of me, Seth! Is he, Megan?" As she asserts her independence, she stumbles, and sloshes her martini all over Seth's shoe.

Seth grimaces. "You're wasted, A.J. This isn't fun for anyone but you."

"Okay. Okay, I'll go…I'm feeling kind of sick anyway," she says, looking queasy.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I'll be fine. Don't you worry," she says, now playing the role of little sick girl.

I thank her for my party, tell her it was a total surprise-which is a lie, because I knew A.J. would capitalize on my thirtieth to buy a new outfit, throw a big bash, and invite as many of her friends as my own. Still, it was nice of her to have the party, and I am glad that she did. She is the kind of friend who always makes things feel special. She hugs me hard and says she'd do anything for me, and what would she do without me, her maid of honor, and the sister she never had. She is gushing as she always does when she drinks too much.

Seth cuts her off, "Happy Birthday, Megan. We'll talk to you tomorrow," he gives me a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks Seth," I say. "Good night."

I watch him usher her outside, holding her elbow after she nearly trips on the curb. Oh, to have such a caretaker. To be able to drink with reckless abandon and know that there will be someone to get you home safely.

Sometime later, Seth reappears in the bar. "A.J. lost her purse. She thinks she left it here. It's small, silver," he says. "Have you seen it?"

"She lost her new Chanel bag?" I shake my head and laugh because it is just like A.J. to lose things. Usually I keep track of them for her, but I went off duty on my birthday. Still, I had to help Seth search for the purse, finally spotting it under a bar stool.

As he turns to leave, Seth's friend, Phil Brooks, one of his groomsmen, convinces him to stay. "C'mon man. Hang out for a minute."

So Seth calls A.J. at home and she slurs her consent, tells him to have fun without her. Although she is probably thinking that such a thing is not possible.

Gradually my friends peel away, saying their final happy birthdays. Seth and I outlast everyone, even Phil. We sit at the bar making conversation with the actor/bartender who has an "Amy" tattoo and zero interest in an aging lawyer. It is after two when we decide that it's time to go. The night feels more like midsummer than spring, and the warm air infuses me with sudden hope: This will be the summer I meet my guy.

Seth hails me a cab, but as it pulls over he says, "How about one more bar? One more drink?"

"Fine," I say. "Why not?"

We both get in and he tells the cabbie to just drive, that he has to think about where next. We end up in Alphabet City at a bar on Seventh and Avenue B, aptly named 7B.

It is not an upbeat scene-7B is dingy and smoke-filed. I like it anyway-it's not sleek and it's not a dive striving to be cool because it's not sleek.

Seth points to a booth. "Have a seat. I'll be right with you." Then he turns around. "What can I get you?"

I tell him whatever he's having, and sit and wait for him in the booth. I watch him say something to a girl at the bar wearing army-green cargo pants and a tank top that says "Fallen Angel." She smiles and shakes her head. "Omaha" is playing in the background. It is one of those songs that seems melancholy and cheerful at the same time.

A moment later, Seth slides in across from me, pushing a beer my way. "Newcastle," he says. Then he smiles, crinkly lines appearing around his eyes. "You like?"

I nod and smile.

From the corner of my eye, I see Fallen Angel turn on her bar stool and survey Seth, absorbing his chiseled features, wavy hair, full lips. A.J. complied once that Seth garners more stares and double takes than she does. Yet, unlike his female counterpart, Seth seems not to notice the attention. Fallen Angel now casts her eyes my way, likely wondering what Seth is doing with someone so average. I hope that she thinks that we're a couple. Tonight nobody has to know that I am only a member of the wedding party.

Seth and I talk about our jobs and our Hamptons share that begins in another week and a lot of things. But A.J. does not come up and neither does their September wedding.

After we finish our beers we move over to the jukebox, fill it with dollar bills, searching for good songs. I push the code for "Thunder Road" twice because it is my favorite song. I tell him this.

"Yeah. Springsteen's at the top of my list, too. Ever seen him in concert?"

"Yeah," I say. "Twice. Born in the U.S.A. and Tunnel of Love."

I almost tell him that I went with A.J. in high school, dragged her along even though she much preferred groups like Poison and Bon Jovi. But I don't bring this up. Because then he will remember to go home to her and I don't want to be alone in my dwindling moments of twenty-somethingness. Obviously I'd rather be with a boyfriend, but Seth is better than nothing.

It is last call at 7B. We get a couple more beers and return to our booth. Sometime later we are in a cab again, going north on First Avenue. "Two stops," Seth tells our cabbie, because we live on opposite sides of Central Park. Seth is holding A.J.'s Chanel purse, which looks small and out of place in his large hands. I glance at the silver dial of his Rolex, a gift from A.J. It is just shy of four o'clock.

We sit silently for a stretch of ten or fifteen blocks, both of us looking out our respective side windows, until the cab hits a pothole and I find myself lurched into the middle of the backseat, my leg grazing his. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Seth is kissing me. Or maybe I kiss him. Somehow we are kissing. My mind goes blank as I listen to the soft sound of our lips meeting again and again. At some point, Seth taps the Plexiglas partition and tells the drive, between kisses, that it will just be one stop after all.

We arrive on the corner of Seventy-third and Third, near my apartment. Seth hands the driver a twenty and does not wait for change. We spill out of the taxi, kissing more on the sidewalk and then in front of Jose, my doorman. We kiss the whole way up in the elevator. I am pressed against the elevator wall, my hands on the back of his head. I am surprised by how soft his hair is.

I fumble with my key, turning it the wrong way in the lock as Seth keeps his arms around my waist, his lips on my neck and the side of my face. Finally the door is open and we are kissing in the middle of my studio, standing upright, leaning on nothing but each other. We stumble over to my made bed, complete with tight hospital corners.

"Are you drunk?" His voice is a whisper in the dark.

"No," I say. Because you always say no when you're drunk. And even though I am, I have a lucid instant where I consider clearly what was missing in my twenties and what I wish to find in my thirties. It strikes me that, in a sense, I can have both on this momentous birthday night. Seth can be my secret, my last chance for a dark twenty-something chapter and he can also be a prelude of sorts-a promise of someone like him to come. A.J. is in my mind, but she is being pushed to the back, overwhelmed by a force stronger than our friendship and my own conscience. Seth moves over me. My eyes are closed, then open, and then closed again.

And then, somehow, I am having sex with my best friend's fiancé.


	2. Chapter 2

Two

I wake up to my ringing phone and for a second I am disoriented in my own apartment. Then I hear A.J.'s high-pitched voice on my machine, urging me to pick up, pick up, please pick up. My crime snaps into focus. I sit up too quickly, and my apartment spins. Seth's back is to me, sculpted and sparsely freckled. I jab hard at it with one finger.

He rolls over and looks at me. "Oh, Christ! What time is it?"

MY clock radio tells us it is seven-fifteen. I have been thirty for two hours. Correction-one hour; I was born in the central time zone.

Seth gets out of bed quickly, gathering his clothes, which are strewn along either side of my bed. The answering machine beeps twice, cutting A.J. off. Again, my machine silences her in midsentence. She calls back a third time, wailing. "Wake up and call me! I need you!"

I start to get out of bed, then realize that I am naked. I sit back down and cover myself with a pillow.

"Omigod. What do we do?" My voice is hoarse and shaking. "Should I answer? Tell her you crashed here?"

"Hell, no! Don't pick up-lemme think for a sec." He sits down, wearing only boxers and rubs his jaw, now covered by a shadow of whiskers.

Sick, sobering dread washes over me. I start to cry. Which never helps anything.

"Look, Megan, don't cry," Seth says. Everything's going to be okay."

He puts on his jeans and then his shirt, efficiently zipping and tucking and buttoning as though it is an ordinary morning. Then he checks the messages on his cell phone. "Shhhit. Twelve missed calls," he says matter-of-factly. Only his eyes show distress.

When he is dressed, he sits back on the edge of the bed and rests his forehead in his hands. I can hear him breathing hard through his nose. Air in and out. Then he looks over at me, composed. "Okay, here's what's going to happen. Megan, look at me."

I obey his instructions, still clutching my pillow.

"This will be fine. Just listen," he says, as though talking to a client in a conference room.

"I'm listening," I say.

"I'm going to tell her I stayed out until five or so and then got breakfast with Phil. We got it covered."

"What do I tell her?" I ask. Lying has never been my strong suit.

"Just tell her you left the party and went home…Say you can't remember for sure whether I was still there when you left, but you think I was still there with Phil. And be sure to say you 'think'-don't be too definite. And that's all you know, okay?" He points at my phone. "Call her back now…I'll call Phil as soon as I leave here. Got it?"

I nod, my eyes filling with tears again as he stands.

"And calm down," he says, not meanly, but firmly. Then he is at the door, one hand on the knob, the other running through his dark hair that is just long enough to be really sexy.

"What if she already talked to Phil?" I ask, as Seth is halfway out the door. Then, more to myself, "We are so screwed."

He turns around, looks at me through the doorway. For a second, I think he is angry, that he is going to yell at me to pull myself together. That this isn't life-or-death. But his tone is gentle. "Meg, we are not screwed. I got it covered. Just say what I told you to say…And Megan?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really sorry."

"Yeah," I say. "Me too."

Are we talk to each other-or to A.J.?

As soon as Seth leaves, I reach for the phone, still feeling dizzy. It takes a few minutes, but I finally work up the nerve to call A.J.

She is hysterical. "The bastard didn't come home last night! He better be laid up in a hospital bed!...Do you think he cheated on me?"

I start to say no, that he was probably just out with Phil, but think better of it. Wouldn't that look too obvious? Would I say that if I knew nothing? I can't think. My head and heart are pounding and the room is still spinning intermittently. "I'm sure he wasn't cheating on you."

She blows her nose. "Why are you so sure?"

"Because he wouldn't do that to you, A.J." I can't believe my words, how easily they come.

"Well, then, where the fuck is he? The bars close by four or five. It's seven-freaking-thirty!"

"I don't know…But I'm sure there's a logical explanation."

Which, in fact, there is.

She asks me what time I left and whether he was still there and who he was with-the exact questions that Seth prepped me on. I answer carefully, as instructed. I suggest that she call Phil.

"I already called him," she says. "And that dumbass didn't answer his goddamn cell."

Yes. We have a chance.

I hear the click of call-waiting and A.J. is gone, then back, telling me that it is Seth and she'll call me when she can.

I stand and walk unsteadily to my bathroom. I look in the mirror. My skin is blotchy and red. My eyes are ringed with mascara and charcoal liner, and they burn from sleeping in my contact lenses. I remove them quickly just before dry-heaving over my toilet. I haven't thrown up from drinking since college, and that only happened once. Because I learn from my mistakes. Most college kids say, "I will never do this again," and then do it the following weekend. But I stuck to it. That is just how I am. I will learn from this one too. Just let me get away with it.

I shower, wash the smoke from my hair and skin with my phone resting on the sink, waiting to hear from A.J. that everything is okay. But hours pass and she does not call. Around noon, the birthday well-wishes start dialing in. My parents do their annual serenade and the "guess where I was thirty years ago today?" routine. I manage to put on a good front and play along, but it isn't easy

By three o'clock, I have not heard from A.J. and I am still queasy. I chug a big glass of water, take two Advil, and contemplate ordering fried eggs and bacon, which A.J. swears by when she's hungover. But I know that nothing will kill the pain of waiting, wondering what is going on, if Seth is busted, if we both are.

Did anybody see us together at 7B? In the cab? On the street? Anyone besides Jose, whose job it is to know nothing? What was happening on the Upper West Side in their apartment? Had he gone mad and confessed? Was she packing her bags? Were they making love all day in an attempt to repair his conscience? Were they still fighting, going around, and around in circles of accusation and denial?

Fear must supersede all other emotions-stifling shame or regret-because crazily enough, I do not seem to feel guilty about betraying my best friend. Not even when I find our used condom on the floor. The only real guilt I can muster is guilt over not feeling guilty. But I will repent later, just as soon as I know that I am safe. Oh, please, God, I have never done anything like this before. Please let me have this one pass. I will sacrifice all future happiness. Any chance of meeting a husband.

I think of all those deals I tried to strike with Him when I was in school, growing up. Please don't let me get any lower than a B on this math test. Please, I will do anything-work in a soup kitchen every Saturday instead of just once a month. Those were the days. To think that a C once symbolized all things gone wrong in my tidy world. How could I have ever, even fleetingly wished for a dark side? How could I have made such a huge, potentially life-altering, utterly unforgivable mistake?

Finally I can't take it any longer. I call A.J.'s cell phone, but it goes straight to voicemail. I call their home number, hoping she will pick up. Instead Seth answers. I cringe.

"Hi, Seth. This is Megan," I say, trying to sound normal.

You know, the maid of honor in your upcoming wedding-the woman you had sex with last night?

"Hi, Megan," he says casually. "So did you have fun last night?"

For a second, I think that he is talking about us and am horrified by his nonchalance. But then I hear A.J. clamoring for the phone in the background and realize that he is only talking about the party.

"Oh yeah, it was a great time-a great party." I bite my lip.

A.J. has already snatched the phone from him. Her tone is chipper, fully repaired. "Hey, I'm sorry I forgot to call you back. You know, it was high drama over here for a while."

"But you're okay now? Everything's all right with you-and Seth?" I have trouble saying his name; as if it will somehow give me away.

"Um, yeah, hold on one sec."

I hear her close a door; she always moves into their bedroom when she talks on the phone. I picture their four-poster bed, which I help to select from Charles P. Rogers. Soon to be their marital bed.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine now. He was just with Phil. They stayed out late and then ended up going to the diner for breakfast. But of course, you know, I'm still working the pissed-off angle. I told him he's totally pathetic, that he's a thirty-four-year- old engaged man and he stays out all night. Pathetic, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess so, but harmless enough." I swallow hard and think yes, that would be harmless enough. "Well, I'm glad you guess, but still…he should have called. That shit does not fly with me, you know?"

"I hear you," I say, and then bravely add, "I told you he wasn't cheating on you."

"I know…but I still pictured him with some stripper bimbo from Scores or something. My overactive imagination."

Is that what last night was? I know I'm not a bimbo, but was it some conscious choice of his to get laid before the wedding? Surely not. Surely he wouldn't choose A.J.'s maid of honor.

"So anyway, what did you think of the party? I'm such a bad friend-I get wasted and leave early. And, oh shit! Today's your actual birthday. Happy birthday! God, I'm the worst, Meg!"

Yeah, you're the bad friend.

"Oh, it was great. The party was so much fun. Thank you for planning it-it was a total surprise…really awesome…"

I hear their bedroom door open and Seth say something about being late.

"Yeah, I actually gotta run, Megan. We're going to the movies. You wanna come?"

"Um, no, thanks."

"Okay, but we're still on for dinner tonight, right? Rain at eight?"

I totally forgot that I had plans to meet Seth, A.J. and Natalya for a small birthday dinner. There is no way I can face Seth or A.J. tonight-and certainly not together. I tell her that I'm not sure I'm up to it, that I am really hungover. Even though I stopped drinking at two, I add, before I remember that liars offer too much extraneous detail.

A.J. doesn't notice. "Maybe you'll feel better later…I'll call you after the movie."

I hand up the phone, thinking that it was way too easy. But instead of feeling relieved, I am left with a vague dissatisfaction, wistfulness, wishing I was going to the movies. Not with Seth, of course, just someone. How quickly I turn my back on the deal with God. I want a husband again, or at least a boyfriend.

I sit on the couch with my hands folded in my lap, contemplating what I did to A.J., waiting for the guilt to come. It doesn't. Was it because I had alcohol as an excuse? I was drunk, not in my right mind. I think of my first-year Criminal Law class. Intoxication, like insanity, infancy, duress, and entrapment, is a legal excuse, a defense where the defendant is not blameworthy for being engaged in conduct that would otherwise be a crime. Shit. That was only involuntary intoxication. Well, A.J. made me do those shots. But peer pressure does not constitute involuntary intoxication. Still, it is a mitigating circumstance that the jury might consider.

Sure, blame the victim. What is wrong with me?

Maybe I am just a bad person. Maybe the only reason I have been good up to this point has less to do with my true moral fiber and more to do with the fear of getting caught. I play by the rules because I am risk-averse. I didn't go along with the junior-high shoplifting gags at the White Hen Pantry partly because I knew it was wrong, but mostly because I was sure that I would be the one to get caught. I never cheated on an exam for the same reason. Even now I don't take office supplies from work because I figure that somehow the firm's surveillance cameras will catch me in the act. So if that is what motivates me to be good, do I really deserve credit? Am I really a good person? Or just a cowardly pessimist?

Okay, so maybe I am a bad person. There is no other plausible explanation for my lack of guilt. Do I have it in for A.J.? Was I driven by jealousy last night? Do I resent her perfect life-how easily things come to her? Or maybe, subconsciously, in my drunken state, I was getting even for past wrongs. A.J. hasn't always been a perfect friend. Far from it. I start to make my case to the jury, remembering Randy back in elementary school. I am on to something…Ladies and gentlemen of the jury; consider the story of Randy Orton...

A.J. Lee and I were best friends growing up, bonded by geography, a force greater than all else when you are in elementary school. We moved to the same cul-de-sac in Naperville, Indiana, in the summer of 1976, just in time to attend the town's bicentennial parade together. We marched side by side, beating matching red, white, and blue drums that A.J.'s father bought for us at Kmart. I remember A.J. leaning in to me and saying, "Let's pretend we're sisters." The suggestion gave me goose bumps- a sister! And in no time at all, that is what she became to me. We slept over at each other's family life, the sort of details you only learn when you live next door to a friend. I knew, for example, that A.J.'s mother folded towels in neat thirds as she watched The Young and the Restless, that A.J.'s father subscribed to Playboy, that junk food was allowed for breakfast, and the words "shit" and "damn" were no big deal. I'm sure she observed much about my home too, although it is hard to say what makes your own life unique. We shared everything-clothes, toys, yards, even our love of Andy Gibb and unicorns.

In the fifth grade we discovered boys; which brings me to Dolph, my first real crush. A.J., along with every other girl in our class, loved Dolph Ziggler. I understood Dolph's appeal. I appreciated his blonde hair that reminded us of Bo Duke. And the way his Wranglers fit his butt, his black comb tucked neatly inside the back left pocket. And his dominance in tetherball-how he casually and effortlessly socked the ball out of everyone's reach at a sharp upward angle.

But I loved Randy. I loved his unruly hair and the way his cheeks turned pink during recess and made him look like he belonged in a Renoir painting. I loved the way he rotated his number-two pencil between his full lips, making symmetrical little bite marks near the eraser whenever he was concentrating really hard. I loved how hyper and happy he was when he played four square with the girls (he was the only boy who would ever join us-the other boys stuck to tetherball and football). And I loved that he was always kind to the most unpopular boy in our class, JTG, who had a terrible stutter and an unfortunate bowl cut.

A.J. was puzzled, if not irritated, by my dissent, as was our good friend Beth Phoenix, who moved to our cul-de-sac two years after we did (this delay and the fact that she already had a sister meant she could never quite catch up and reach full best-friend status). A.J. and Beth liked Randy, but not like that, and they would insist that Dolph was so much cuter and cooler-the two attributes that will get you in trouble when you choose a boy or a man, a sense that I had even at age ten.

We all assumed that A.J would land the grand Dolph prize. Not only because A.J. was bolder than the other girls, strutting right up to Dolph in the cafeteria or on the playground, but also because she was the prettiest girl in our class. With high cheekbones, huge, well-spaced eyes and a dainty nose, she has a face that is revered at any age, although fifth-graders can't pinpoint what exactly what makes it nice. I don't think I even understood what cheekbones and bone structure were at age ten, but I knew that A.J. was pretty and I envied her looks. So did Beth, who openly told A.J. so every chance she got, which seemed wholly unnecessary to me. A.J. already knew she was pretty, and in my opinion she didn't need daily reinforcement.

So that yea, on Halloween, Beth, A.J. and I assembled in Beth's room to prepare our makeshift gypsy costumes-A.J had insisted that it would be an excellent excuse to wear lots of makeup. As she examined a pair of rhinestone earrings freshly purchased from Claire's, she looked in the mirror and said, "You know, Megan, I think you're right."

"Right about what?" I said, feeling a surge of satisfaction, wondering what past debate she was referring to.

She fastened one earring in place and looked at me. I will never forget that tiny smirk on her face- just the faintest hint or a smug smile. "You're right about Randy. I think I'm going to like him too."

"What do you mean, 'going to like him'?"

"I'm tired of Dolph Ziggler. I like Randy now. I like his dimples."

"He only has one," I snapped.

"Well, then I like his dim-ple."

I looked at Beth for support, for words to the effect that you couldn't just decide to like someone new. But of course she said nothing, just kept applying her ruby lipstick, puckering before a handheld mirror.

"I can't believe you, A.J.!"

"What's your problem?" she demanded. "Beth wasn't mad when I liked Dolph. We've shared him with the whole grade for months. Right, Beth?"

"Longer than that. I started liking him in the summer. Remember? At the pool?" Beth chimed in, always missing the big picture.

I glared at her, and she lowered her eyes remorsefully.

That was different. That was Dolph. He belonged in the public domain. But Randy was exclusively mine.

I said nothing else that night, but trick-or-treating was ruined. The next day in school, A.J. passed Randy a note, asking him if he liked me, her, or neither-with little boxes next to each selection and instructions to check one. He must have checked A.J.'s name because they were a couple by recess; which is to say that they announced that they were "going out" but never spent any real time together, unless you count a few phone calls at night, often scripted ahead of time with Beth giggling at her side. I refused to participate in or discuss her fledgling romance.

In my mind, it didn't' matter that A.J. and Randy never kissed, or that it was only the fifth grade, or that they "broke up" two weeks later when A.J. lost interest and decided that she liked Dolph Ziggler again. Or that, as my mother told me for comfort, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. It only mattered that A.J. stole Randy from me. Perhaps she did it because she really did change her mind about him; that's what I told myself so I would stop hating her. But more likely A.J. took Randy just to show me that she could.

So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in a sense, A.J. Lee had this coming to her. What goes around comes around. Perhaps this is her comeuppance.

I picture the faces of the jury. They are not swayed. The male jurors look bewildered-as if they miss the point altogether. Doesn't the prettiest girl always get the boy? That is precisely the way the world should work. An older woman in a sensible dress purses her lips. She is disgusted by the mere comparison-a fiancé to a fifth-grade crush! Good heavens. A perfectly groomed, almost beautiful woman, wearing a canary-yellow Chanel suit, has already identified and allied herself with A.J. There is nothing I can say to change her mind or mitigate my offense.

The only juror who seems moved by the Randy tale is a slightly overweight girl with a severe bob the color of day old coffee. She slouches in the corner of the jury box, occasionally shoving her glasses up on her beak of a nose. I have tapped into this girl's empathy, her sense of justice. She is secretly satisfied by what I did. Maybe because she, too, has a friend like A.J., a friend who always gets everything she wants.

I think back to high school, when A.J. continued to get any boy she wanted. I can see her kissing Justin Gabriel by our locker and recall to witness their shameless PDA. Justin transferred to our school from Columbus, Ohio, in the fall of our junior year, and became an instant hit everywhere but in the classroom. Although he wasn't bright, he was the star receiver on our football team; the starting point guard for our basketball team and of course, our starting pitcher in the spring. And with his Ken-doll good looks, the girls loved him. Dolph Ziggler, part two. But alas, he had a girlfriend named Kelly Kelly back in Columbus to who he claimed to be "110 percent committed" (a jock expression that has always bugged me for its obvious mathematical impossibility). Or so he was before A.J. got in the mix, after we watched Justin pitch a no-hitter against Central and she decided that she had to have him. The next day she asked him to go see Les Miserables. You'd think a three-sport jock like Justin wouldn't be into musicals, but he enthusiastically agreed to escort her. After the show, in A.J.'s living room, Justin planted a large hickey on her neck. And the following morning, one Kelly Kelly of Columbus, Ohio, was dumped on her ear.

I remember talking to Beth about A.J.'s charmed life. We often discussed A.J., which made me wonder how much they gossiped about me. Beth contended that it wasn't only A.J.'s good looks or perfect today; it was also her confidence, her charm. I don't know about the charm, but looking back I agree with Beth about the confidence. It was as if A.J. had the perspective of a thirty-year old while in high school. The understanding that none of it really mattered, that you only go around once, that you might as well go for it. She was never intimidated, never insecure. She embodied what everyone says when they look back on high school: "If I only knew back then."

But one thing I have to say about A.J. and dating is this; she never blew us off for a guy. She always put her friends first- which is an amazing thing for a high school girl to do. Sometimes she blew her boyfriend off altogether, but more often she just included us. The four of us in a row at the theater, the flavor of the month, then A.J., then Beth and me. And A.J. always directed her whispered comments our way. She was brash and independent, unlike most high school girls who allow their feelings for a boy to swallow them up. At the same time, I thought she just didn't love them enough. But maybe A.J. just wanted to keep control, and by being the one who loved the least, that is what she had. Whether she did care less or just pretended to, she kept every one of them on the hook even after she cut them loose. Take Justin, for example. He is living in Iowa with a wife, three kids, and a couple of chocolate Labs, and he still e-mails A.J. on her birthday every year. Now that is some kind of power.

To this day A.J. talks wistfully of how great high school was. I cringe whenever she says it. Sure, I have some fond memories of those days, and enjoyed moderate popularity-a nice fringe benefit of being A.J.'s best friend. I loved going to football games with Beth, painting our faces orange and blue, wrapping up in blankets in the bleachers, and waving to A.J. as she cheered down on the field. I loved our Saturday night trips to Colonial Ice Cream, where we always ordered the same thing- one turtle sundae, one Snickers pie, one double chocolate brownie-and then split them among us. And I loved my first boyfriend, Roman Reigns, who asked me out during our senior year. Roman was a rule-follower too, a Catholic version of me. He didn't drink or do drugs, and he felt guilty even discussing sex. A.J., who lost her virginity our sophomore year to an exchange student from Spain named Primo, was always instructing me to corrupt Roman. "Grab his penis like this, and I guarantee it's a done deal." But I was perfectly happy with our long make out sessions in Roman's family station wagon and I never had to worry about safe sex or drunk driving. So if my memories weren't glamorous, at least I had a few good times.

But I also had plenty of bad times; the awful hair days, the pimples, the class pictures from hell, never having the right clothes, being dateless for dances, baby fat that I could never shed, getting cut from teams, losing the election for class treasurer. And the overwhelming feeling of sadness and angst that would come and go willy-nilly (or, more accurately, once a month), seemingly out of my control. Typical teenage stuff, really. Clichés, because it happens to everyone. Everyone but A.J. that is, who floated through those tumultuous four years unscathed by rejection, untouched by the adolescent ugly stick. Of course she loved high school-high school loved her.

Many girls with this view of their teenage years seem to really take it on the chin later in life. They show up at their ten year reunion twenty pounds heavier, divorced, and reminiscing about their long gone glory days. But the tide of glory days hasn't ebbed for A.J. no crashing and no burning. In fact, life just keeps getting sweeter for her. As my mother once said, uncharacteristically, A.J. has the world by the balls. It was-and still is- the perfect description. A.J. always gets what she wants, and that includes Seth, the dream fiancé.

I leave A.J. a message on her cell, which will be turned off during the movie. I say that I am too tired to make it to dinner. Just getting out of going makes me less queasy. In fact, I am suddenly very hungry. I find my menus and call to order a hamburger with cheddar and fries. Guess I won't be losing five pound before Memorial Day. As I wait for my delivery, I picture A.J. and me playing with the phone book all those years ago, wondering about the future and what age thirty would bring.

And here I am, without a dashing husband, the responsible babysitter, the two kids. Instead my benchmark birthday is forever tainted by scandal…Oh, well. No point beating myself up over it. I hit redial on my phone and add a large chocolate milkshake to my order. I see my girl in the corner of the jury box wink at me. She thinks the milk shake is an excellent idea. After all, doesn't everyone deserve a few weak moments on her birthday?


	3. Chapter 3

Three

When I wake up the next morning, the cavalier girl sucking down a milk shake is gone, caved to guilt and thirty years of rule-following. I can no longer rationalize what I did. I committed an unspeakable act against a friend, violated a central tenet of sisterhood. There is no justification.

So on to Plan B: I will pretend that nothing happened. My transgression was so great that I have no choice but simply to will the whole thing to go away. And by proceeding with business as usual, embracing my Monday morning routine, this is what I seek to accomplish.

I shower, dry my hair, put on my most comfortable black suit and low heels, take the subway to Grand Central, get my coffee at Starbucks, pick up The New York Times at my newsstand, and ride two escalators and one elevator up to my office in the MetLife Building. Each part of my routine presents one step further from Seth and the Incident.

I arrive at my office at eight-twenty, way early by law-firm standards. The halls are quiet. Not even the secretaries are in yet. I am turning to the Metro section of the paper, sipping my coffee, when I notice the blinking red message light on my phone-usually a warning that more work awaits me. Some jackass partner must have called me on the one weekend in recent memory when I failed to check my messages. My money is on Vince, the dominant man in my life and the biggest jackass partner amid six floors of them. I enter my password, wait…

"You have one new message from an outside caller. Received today at seven-forty-two A.M…" the recording tells me. I hate that automated woman. She consistently bears bad news and does so in a chipper voice. They should adjust that recording at law firms, make the voice more somber: "Uh-oh"-with ominous Jaws music in the background-"you have four new messages…"

"Hi Megan…It's me…Seth…I wanted to call you yesterday to talk about Saturday night but- I just couldn't. I think we should talk about it, don't you? Call me when you can. I should be around all day."

My heart sinks. Why can't he adopt some good old-fashioned avoidance techniques and ignore it, never speak of it again? That was my game plan. No wonder I hate my job; I am a litigator who hates confrontations. I pick up my pen and tap it against the edge of my desk. I hear my mom telling me not to fidget. I put the pen down and stare at the blinking light. The women demands that a decision be made with respect to the message-I must replay it, save it or delete it.

What does he want to talk about? What is there to say? I replay, expecting the answers to come to me in the sound of his voice, his cadence. But he gives nothing away. I replay again and again until his voice starts to sound distorted, just as a word changes in your mouth when you repeat it enough times. Egg, egg, egg, egg. That used to be my favorite. I'd say it over and over until it seemed that I had the altogether wrong word for the yellow substance I was about to ear for breakfast.

I listen to Seth one final time before I delete him. His voice definitely sounds different. This makes sense because in some ways, he is different. We both are. Because even if I try to block out when happened, even if Seth drops the Incident after a brief, awkward telephone call, we will forever be on one another's List- that list every person has, whether recorded in a secret notebook or memorized in the back of the mind. Whether short or long. Whether in ranked order of performance or importance or chronology. Whether complete with first, middle, and last names or mere physical descriptions, Like A.J.'s List: "Delta Sig with killer delts…"

Seth is on my list for good. Without wanting to, I suddenly think of us in bed together. For those brief moments, he was just Seth-separate from A.J. something he hadn't been in a very long time. Something he hadn't been since the day I introduced the two.

I met Seth during our first year of law school at NYU. Unlike most law students, who come straight from college when they can think of nothing better to do with their stellar undergrad transcripts, Seth Rollins, was older, with real life experience. He had worked as an analyst at Goldman Sachs, which blew away my nine-to-five summer internships and office jobs filing and answering phone. He was confident, relaxed and so gorgeous that it was hard not to stare at him. I was positive that he would become the Dolph Ziggler and Justin Gabriel of law school. Sure enough we were barely into our first week of class when the buzz over Seth began, women speculating about his status, nothing either that his left ring finger was unadorned or alternatively worrying that he was too well dressed and handsome to be straight.

But I dismissed Seth straightaway, convincing myself that his outward perfection was boring. Which was a fortunate stance; because I also knew that he was out of my league. (I hate that expression and the presumption that people choose mates based so heavily upon looks, but it is hard to deny the principle when you look around-partners generally share the same level of attractiveness, and when they do not, it is noteworthy.) Besides, I wasn't borrowing thirty thousand dollars a year so that I could find a boyfriend.

As a matter of fact, I probably would have gone three years without talking to him, but we randomly ended up next to each other in Torts, a seating-chart class taught by the sardonic Professor Zigman. Although many professors at NYU used the Socratic Method, only Zigman used it as a tool to humiliate and torture students. Seth and I bonded in our hatred of our mean-spirited professor. I feared Zigman to an irrational extreme, he would growl after class; often Zigman had reduced a fellow classmates to tears. "I just want to wipe that smirk off his pompous face."

Gradually, our grumbling turned into longer talks over coffee in the student lounge, or during walks around Washington Square Park. We began to study together in the hour before class, preparing for the inevitable-the day Zigman would call on us. I dreaded my turn, knowing that it would be a bloody massacre, but secretly couldn't wait for Seth to be called on. Zigman preyed on the weak and flustered, and Seth was neither. I was sure that he wouldn't go down without a fight.

I remember it well. Zigman stood behind his podium, examining his seating chart, a schematic with our faces cut from the first-year look book, practically salivating as he picked his prey. He peered over his small, round glasses (the kind that should be called spectacles) in our general direction, and said, "Mr. Rollins."

"Mr. Rollins," Zigman said, with an insincere little bow. "Palsgraf versus Long Island Railroad Company."

Seth sat calmly with his book closed while the rest of the class nervously flipped to the case we had been assigned to read the night before.

The case involved a railroad accident. While rushing to board a train, a railroad employee knocked a package of dynamite our of a passenger's hand, causing injury to another passenger, Mrs. Palsgraf. Justice Cardozo, writing for the majority, held that Mrs. Palsgraf was not a "foreseeable plaintiff" and, as such, could not recover from the railroad company. Perhaps the railroad employees should have foreseen harm to the package holder, the Court explained, but not harm to Mrs. Palsgraf.

"Should the plaintiff have been allowed recovery?" Zigman asked Seth.

Seth said nothing. For a brief second I panicked that he had frozen, like the others before him. Say no, I thought, sending him fierce brain waves. Go with the majority holding. But when I looked at his expression, and the way his arms were folded across his chest. I could tell that he was only taking his time, in marked contrast to the way most first-year students blurted out quick, nervous, untenable answers as if reaction time could compensate for understanding.

"In my opinion?" Seth asked.

"I am addressing you, Mr. Rollins. So, yes, I am asking for your opinion."

"I would have to say yes, the plaintiff should have been allowed recovery. I agree with Justice Andrew's dissent."

"Ohhhh, really?" Zigman's voice was high and nasal.

"Yes. Really."

I was surprised by his answer, as he had told me just before class that he didn't realize crack cocaine had been around in 1928, but Justice Andrews surely must have been smoking it when he wrote his dissent. I was even more surprised by Seth's brazen "really" tagged onto the end of his answer, as though to taunt Zigman.

Zigman's scrawny chest swelled visibly. "So you think that the guard should have foreseen that the innocuous package measuring fifteen inches in length, covered with a newspaper, contained explosives and would cause injury to the plaintiff?"

"It was certainly a possibility."

"Should he have foreseen that the package could cause injury to anybody in the world?" Zigman asked, with mounting sarcasm.

"I didn't say 'anybody in the world.' I said 'the plaintiff." Mrs. Palsgraf, in my opinion was in the danger zone."

Zigman approached our row with ramrod posture and tossed his Wall Street Journal onto Seth's closed textbook.

"Care to return my newspaper?"

"I'd prefer not to," Seth said.

The shock in the room was palpable. The rest of us would have simply played along and returned the paper, mere props in Zigman's questioning.

"You'd prefer not to?" Zigman cocked his head.

"That's correct. There could be dynamite wrapped inside it."

Half of the class gasped the other half snickered. Clearly, Zigman had some tactic up his sleeve, some way of turning the facts around on Seth. But Seth wasn't falling for it. Zigman was visibly frustrated.

"Well, let's suppose you did choose to return it to me and it did contain a stick of dynamite and it did cause injury to your person. Then what, Mr. Rollins?"

"Then I would sue you, and likely, I would win."

"And would that recovery be consistent with Judge Cardozo's rationale in the majority holding?"

"No. It would not."

"Oh, really? And why not?"

"Because I'd sue you for an intentional tort, and Cardozo was talking about negligence, was he not?" Seth raised his voice to match Zigman's.

I think I stopped breathing as Zigman pressed his palms together and brought them neatly against his chest as though he were praying. "I ask the questions in this classroom. If that's all right with you, Mr. Rollins?"

Seth shrugged as if to say, have it your way, makes no difference to me.

"Well, let's suppose that I accidentally dropped my paper onto your desk, and you returned it and were injured. Would Mr. Cardozo allow you full recovery?"

"Sure."

"And why is that?"

Seth sighed to show that the exercise was boring him and then said swiftly and clearly, "Because it was entirely foreseeable that the dynamite could cause injury to me. Your dropping the paper containing dynamite into my personal space violated my legally protected interest. Your negligent act caused a hazard apparent to the eye of ordinary violence."

I studied the highlighted portions of my book. Seth was quoting sections of Cardozo's opinion verbatim, without so much as glancing at his book or notes. The whole class was spellbound-nobody did this well, and certainly not with Zigman, looming over him.

"And if Ms. Myers sued," Zigman said, pointing to a trembling Julie Myers on the other side of the classroom, his victim from the day before.

"Should she be allowed recovery?"

"Under Cardozo's holding or Justice Andrew's dissent?"

"The latter. As it is the opinion you share."

"Yes, everyone owes to the world at large the duty of refraining from acts which unreasonably threaten the safety of others," Seth said, another straight quote from the dissent.

It went on like that for the rest of the hour, Seth distinguishing nuances in changed fact patterns, never wavering, always answering decisively.

And at the end of the hour, Zigman actually said, "Very good Mr. Rollins."

It was a first.

I left class felling jubilant. Seth had prevailed for all of us. The story spread throughout the first year class, earning him more points with the girls, who had long since determined that he was totally available.

I told A.J. the story as well. She had moved to New York at about the same time I did, only under vastly different circumstances. I was there to become a lawyer; she came without a job, or a plan or much money. I let her sleep on a futon in my dorm room until she found some roommates-three American Airlines flight attendants looking to squeeze a fourth body into their heavily partitioned studio. She borrowed money from her parents to make the rest while she looked for a job, finally settling on a bartending position at the Monkey Bar. For the first time in our friendship, I was happy with my life in comparison to hers. I was just as poor, but at least I had a plan. A.J.'s prospects didn't seem great with only a 2.9 GPA from Indiana University.

"You're so lucky," A.J. would whine as I tried to study.

No, luck is what you have, I'd think. Luck is buying a lottery ticket along with your Yoo-Hoo and striking rich. Nothing about my life was lucky-it's all about hard work; it is all an uphill struggle. But of course I never said that. Just told her that things would soon turn around for her.

And sure enough, they did. About two weeks later a man waltzed into the Monkey Bar, ordered a whiskey sour, and began to chat A.J. up. By the time he finished his drink, he had promised her a job at one of Manhattan's top PR firms. He told her to come in for an interview, but that he would (wink, wink) make sure that she got the job. A.J. took his business card, had me revise her resume, went in for the interview, and got an offer on the spot. Her starting salary was seventy thousand dollars, plus an expense account. Practically what I would make if I did well enough in school to get a job with a New York firm.

So while I sweated it out and racked up debt, A.J. began her glamorous PR career. She planned parties, promoted the season's latest fashion trends, got plenty of free everything, and dated a string of beautiful men. Within seven months, she left the flight attendants in the dust and moved in with her coworker Layla El, a snobbish, well-connected girl from the United Kingdom.

A.J. tried to include me in her fast track life, although I seldom had time to go to her events or her parties or her blind date setups with guys she swore were "total hotties" but that I knew were simply her castoffs.

Which brings me back to Seth. I raved about him to A.J. and Layla, told them how unbelievable he was-smart, handsome, funny. In retrospect I'm not sure why I did it. In part because it was true. But perhaps I was a little jealous of their glamorous life and wanted to juice mine up a little bit. Seth was the best thing in my arsenal.

"So, why don't you like him?" A.J. would ask.

"He's not my type," I'd say. "We're just friends."

Which was the truth. Sure, there were moments when I felt a flicker of interest or a quickening of my pulse as I sat near Seth. But I remained vigilant not to fall for him, always reminding myself that guys like Seth only date girls like A.J.

It wasn't until the following semester that the two met. A group of us from school, including Seth, planned an impromptu Thursday evening out. A.J. had been asking to meet Seth for weeks, so I phoned her and told her to be at the Red Lion at eight. She showed up, but Seth did not. I could tell A.J. viewed the whole outing as wasted effort, complaining that the Red Lion wasn't her scene, that she was over these grungy undergrad bars (which she had been into just a few short months ago), that the band sucked, and could we please leave and go somewhere nicer where people valued good grooming.

At that moment Seth sauntered into the bar wearing a black leather coat and a beautiful, oatmeal colored cashmere sweater. He walked straight over to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek, which I still wasn't used to-Midwesterners don't kiss and greet like that. I introduced him to A.J. and she turned on the charm, giggling, and playing with her hair and nodding emphatically whenever he said anything. Seth was pleasant to her but didn't seem overly interested and at one point as she was dropping Goldman names-Do you know this guy or that guy?-Seth actually appeared to be suppressing a yawn. He left before the rest of us, waving good-bye to the group and telling A.J. that it was nice to meet her.

On the walk back to my room, I asked her what she thought of him.

"He's cute," A.J. said, giving the minimum endorsement. Her lackluster response irritated me. She couldn't praise him because he hadn't been dazzled enough by her. A.J. expected to be the one pursued, and that's what I had come to expect too.

The next day, as Seth and I had coffee, I waited for him to mention A.J. I was sure he would, but he didn't. A small-okay, a big- part of me enjoyed telling A.J. that her name hadn't come up. For once, someone wasn't falling all over themselves to be with her.

I should've known better.

About a week later, out of the blue, Seth asked me what the story was with my friend.

"Which friend?" I asked, playing dumb.

"You know, the dark-haired woman from the Red Lion?"

"Oh, A.J.," I said. And then cut right to the chase. "You want her phone number?"

"If she's single."

I delivered the news to her that evening. She smiled coyly. "He is pretty cute. I'll go out with him."

It took Seth another two weeks to call her. If he waited on purpose, the strategy worked wonders. She was in a frenzy by the time he took her to Union Square Café. The date obviously went well, because they went to brunch the next morning in the Village. Soon after that, A.J. and Seth were both off the market.

In the beginning, their romance was turbulent. I always knew A.J. loved to fight with her boyfriends-it wasn't fun unless high drama was involved- but I viewed Seth as this rational, cool creature, about the fray. Maybe he had been that way with other girls, but A.J. sucked him into her world of chaos and high emotion. She'd find a phone number in one of his law school notebooks (she was a self-proclaimed snoop), do the research, trace it back to an ex-girlfriend, and refuse to speak to him. One day he came into Torts looking sheepish, with a cut on his forehead right above his left eye. A.J. had hurled a wire hanger at him in a jealous rage.

And it worked the other way too. We'd all go out and A.J. would cozy up to the bar with another guy. I'd watch Seth steal casual glances their way until he could stand it no longer. He'd go to collect her, looking angry but composed, and I'd overhear her justifying her flirtations with some tenuous connection to the guy: "I mean, we were just talking about our brothers and how they were in the same freaking fraternity. Jesus, Seth! You don't have to overreact!"

But eventually the relationship stabilized, the fights grew less intense and more infrequent and she moved into his apartment. Then this past winter, Seth proposed. They picked a weekend in September and she picked me as her maid of honor.

I knew him first, I think to myself now. It is no more ironclad than the Randy defense, but I cling to it for a moment. I picture my sympathetic juror, leaning forwards as she absorbs this revelation. She even raises the point during deliberations. "If it weren't for Megan, Seth and A.J. would never have met. So in a sense, Megan deserved one time with him." The other jurors stare at her incredulously, and Chanel suit tells her not to be ridiculous. That it has nothing to do with anything. "In fact, it might even cut the other way," Chanel suit counters. "Megan had her chance to be with Seth- but that window has long passed. And she is the maid of honor. The maid of honor! It is the ultimate betrayal!"

I work late that night, delaying my call back to Seth. I even consider waiting until tomorrow morning, mid-week, not calling at all. But the longer I wait, the more awkward it will be when I inevitably see him. So I force myself to sit down and dial his number. I hope for his voicemail. It is ten thirty and with any luck, he will be gone, home with A.J.

"Seth Rollins," he answers, his tone all business. He is back at Goldman Sachs, having wisely chosen the banker route over the lawyer route. The work is more interesting and the money is much better.

"Megan!" he sounds genuinely happy to hear from me, although somewhat nervous, his voice a bit too loud. "Thanks for calling. I was starting to think I wasn't going to hear from you."

"I've been meaning to call. It's just that…I've been really busy…crazy day," I stammer. My mouth is bone dry.

"Yeah, it's been nuts here too. Typical Monday," he says, sounding a little more relaxed.

"Yeah…"

An awkward pause follows- well, it feels awkward to me. Does he expect me to bring up the Incident?

"So, how do you feel?" his voice becomes lower.

"How do I feel?" My face is burning, I'm sweating, and I can't rule out the possibility of regurgitating my sushi dinner.

"I mean, what do you think about Saturday?" His voice is lower still, almost a whisper. Maybe he is just being discreet, making sure nobody in the office hears him, but the volume translates at intimate.

"I don't know what you're asking me…"

"Do you feel guilty?"

"Of course I feel guilty. Don't you?" I look out my window at the lights of Manhattan, in the direction of his downtown office.

"Well, yeah," he says sincerely. "Obviously. It shouldn't have happened. No question about that. It was wrong…and I don't want you to think that, you know that it's typical practice for me. I've never cheated on A.J. before. Never…You believe that, don't you?"

I tell him that of course I believe him. I want to believe him.

Another silence.

"So, yeah, that was a first for me," he says.

More silence. I picture him with his feet up on his desk, his collar loosened, and tie thrown over his shoulder. He looks good in a suit. Well, he looks good in anything. And nothing.

"Uh-huh," I say. I am gripping the phone so tightly that my fingers hurt. I switch hands and wipe my sweaty palm on my skirt.

"I feel so bad that you've been friends with A.J. forever, and this thing that happened between us…it puts you in a really atrocious position." He clears his throat and continues. "But at the same time, I don't know…"

"What don't you know?" I ask, against my better judgment to end the conversation, hang up the phone, and choose the flight instinct that has always served me well.

"I don't know. I just…well, in some ways…well, objectively speaking, I know what I did was so wrong. But I just don't feel guilty, isn't that awful?...Do you think less of me?"

I have no idea how to answer this one. "Yes" seems mean and judgmental; "no" might open the floodgates. I find safe, middle ground. "I have no room to judge anyone, do I? I was there…I did it too."

"I know, Megan. But it was my fault."

I think about the elevator, the feel of his hair between my fingers.

"We were both at fault…We were both drunk. It must have been the shots-they just sneaked up on me and I hadn't really eaten much that day," I ramble, hoping that we are nearly finished.

Seth interrupts. "I wasn't that drunk," he states plainly, almost defiantly.

You weren't that drunk?

As though he has read my mind, he continues. "I mean, yes, I had a few drinks-my inhibitions certainly were lowered-but I knew what I was doing, and on some level, I think I wanted it to happen. Well, I suppose that's a rather obvious statement…But what I mean is that I think I consciously wanted it to happen. Not that it was premeditated. But it had crossed my mind at various points before…"

At various points? When? In law school? Before or after you met A.J.?

I suddenly recall one pre-A.J. occasion when Seth and I were studying for our Torts exam in the library. It was late and we were both punchy, almost delirious from lack of sleep and too much caffeine. Seth started imitating Zigman, quoting certain pet phrases of his, as I laughed so hard that I started to cry. When I finally got ahold of myself, he leaned across the narrow table and wiped a tear off my face with his thumb. Just like a scene in a movie, only usually those are sad tears. Our eyes locked.

I looked away first, returning my eyes to my book, the words jumping all over the page. I couldn't for the life of me focus on negligence or proximate cause; only the feel of his thumb on my face. Later, Seth offered to walk me back to my dorm. I politely declined, telling him that I'd be fine on my own. As I was falling asleep that night, I decided that I had imagined his intent, and that Seth would never care for me as more than a friend. He was only being nice

Still, I sometimes wondered what would have happened if I hadn't been so guarded, if I had said yes to his offer that night. I am wondering now in a big way.

Seth keeps talking. "Of course, I'm well aware it can never happen again," he says with conviction. "Right?" The last word is earnest, almost vulnerable.

"Right. Never ever again," I say, immediately regretting my juvenile choice of words. "It was a mistake."

"But I don't regret it. I should, but I just don't," he says.

This is so weird, I think, but say nothing. Just sit dumbly, waiting for him to speak again.

"So anyway, Megan, I'm sorry for putting you in this position. But I thought you should know how I feel," he finishes, and then laughs nervously.

I say okay, well now I know, and I guess we should move on and put this behind us, and all of those other things that I thought Seth were calling to tell me. We say good-bye, then I hand up and state out my window in a daze. The call that was supposed to bring closure only ushered in more uneasiness. And a tiny little stirring inside me, a stirring that I resolve to squelch.

I stand up, turn off my office light, and walk down to the subway, trying to put Seth out of my head. But as I wait on the subway platform, my mind returns to our kiss in the elevator. The feel of his hair and the way he looked sleeping in my bed, half covered by my sheets. Those are the images that I remember the most. They are like the photographs of ex-boyfriends that you desperately want to throw away, but you can't bring yourself to get rid of them. So instead you store them in an old shoe box, in the back of your closet, figuring that it doesn't hurt to save them. Just in case you want to open that box and remember some of the good times. 


	4. Chapter 4

Four

We are days away from the official start of summer and all A.J. can talk about is the Hamptons. She calls and e-mails me constantly, forwarding information about Memorial Day parties, restaurant reservations, and sample sales where we are guaranteed to find the cutest summer clothes. Of course, I am absolutely dreading all of it. Like the four previous summers, I am in a house with A.J. and Seth. This year we are also sharing with Phil, Layla, and Natalya.

"You think we should've gotten a full share?" A.J. asks for at least the twentieth time. I have never known such a second-, third-, fourth,-guesser. She has buyer's remorse when she leaves Baskin-Robbins.

"No, a half share is enough. You never end up using the full share," I say, the phone tucked under my ear as I continue to revise my memo summarizing the difference between Florida and New York excess insurance law.

"Are you typing?" A.J. demands, always expecting my full attention.

"No," I lie typing more quietly.

"You better not be…"

"I'm not."

"Well, I guess you're right, a half share is better…and we have a lot of wedding stuff to do in the city anyway."

The wedding is the only topic I wish to avoid more than the Hamptons. "Uh-huh."

"So are you going to drive out with us or take the train?"

"Train. I don't know if I can get out there at a decent hour," I say thinking that I do not want to be stuck in a car with her and Seth. I have not seen Seth since he left my apartment. Have not seen A.J. since the betrayal.

"Really? 'Cause I was thinking that we should definitely, definitely drive…wouldn't you rather have a car the first weekend out? You know, especially because it's going to be a long weekend. We don't want to be stuck with cabs and stuff…C'mon, ride with us!"

"We'll see," I say as a mother tells a child so that the child will drop the topic.

"Not 'we'll see.' You're comin' with us."

I sigh and tell her that I really should get back to work.

"Okay. Sheesh. I'll let you go work at your oh-so-important job…So we still on for tonight?"

"What's tonight?"

"Hello? Ms. Forgetful. Don't even tell me you have to work late-you promised. Bikinis? Ring a bell?"

"Oh, right," I say. I had completely forgotten my promise to go bathing suit shopping with her. One of the least pleasant tasks in the world. Right up there with scrubbing toilets and getting a root canal. "Yeah, sure. I can still do it."

"Great, I'll meet you at the yogurt counter in the basement of Bloomie's. You know, next to the fat-women's clothes. At seven sharp."

I arrive at Fifty-ninth Street stations fifteen minutes after our designated meeting time and run into the basement of Bloomingdale's, nervous that A.J. will be pouting, I do not feel up to cajoling her out of one of her moods. But she looks content, sitting at the counter with a cup of strawberry frozen yogurt. She smiles and waves. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that there is no scarlet letter on my chest.

"Hi, A.J."

"Hey there! Omigod, I'm going to be so bloated trying on suits!" She points to her stomach with her plastic spoon. "But whatever, I'm used to being a fatty."

I roll my eyes. "You're not fat."

We go through this every year during bathing suit weather. Hell, we go through it virtually every day. A.J.'s weight is a constant source of energy and discussion. She tells me what she is weighing in at-always hovering around the mid-to-high-one-twenties-always too fat by her rigorous standards. Her goal is one-twenty-which I maintain is way too thin for five nine. She e-mails me as she eats a bag of chips: "Make me stop! Help! Call me ASAP!" If I call her back, she'll ask, "Is fifteen fat grams a lot?" Or "How many fat grams equal a pound?" The thing that irritates me, though, is that she is three inches taller than I am but five pound lighter. When I point this out, she says, "Yes, but your boobs are bigger." "Not five pounds bigger," I say. "Still," she'll say, "you look perfect the way you are." Back to me.

I'm far from fat, but her using me as a sounding board on this topic is like me complaining to a blind woman that I have to wear contacts.

"I am so fat. I totally am, and I chowed at lunch. But whatever. As long as I'm not a fat cow in my wedding dress…" she says, finishing her last spoonful of yogurt and tossing the cup into the trash. "Just tell me I have plenty of time to lose weight before the wedding."

"You have plenty of time," I say.

And I have plenty of time before the wedding to stop thinking about the fact that I had sex with your husband-to-be.

"I better rein it in, you know, or else I'm gonna have to shop here." A.J. points at the plus-size section without checking to see if any larger women are within earshot.

I tell her not to be ridiculous.

"So anyway," She says, as we ride the escalator up to the second floor, "Layla was saying that we're getting too old for bikinis. That one-pieces are classier. What do you think of that?" Her expression and tone make it clear what she thinks of Layla's view on swimwear.

"I don't think there are precise age limits on bikinis," I say. Layla is full of exhausting rules; she once told me that black ink should only be used for sympathy notes.

"Ex-act-ly! That's what I told her…besides, she's probably just saying that because she looks kind of bad in a bikini, don't you think?"

I nod. Layla works out religiously and hasn't touched fried food in years, but she is destined to be lumpy. She is redeemed, however, by impeccable grooming and expensive clothing. She'll show up at the beach in a three-hundred dollar one piece with a matching sarong, a fancy hat, and designer glasses and it will go a long way toward disguising an extra roll around her waist.

We make our way around the floor, searching the racks for acceptable suits. At one point, I notice that we have both selected a basic Anne Klein bikini. If we both end up wanting it, A.J. with either insist that she found it first or she'll say that we can get the same one. Then she will proceed to look better in it all summer. No thanks.

I am reminded of the time that she, Beth and I went shopping for backpacks the week before we started the fourth grade. We all spotted the same bag right away. It was purple with silver stars on the outside pocket-way cooler than the other bags. Beth suggested that we get the same one and A.J. said no, that it was way too babyish to match. Matching was for third graders.

So we rock-paper-scissored for it. I went with rock (which I have found to be a winner more than its share of the time). I pounded my jubilant fist over their extended scissor fingers and swept my purple book bag into our shared cart. Beth balked, whining that we knew purple was her favorite color. "I thought you liked red better, Megan!"

Beth was no match for me. I simply told her yes, I did prefer red, but as she could plainly see, there were no red bags. So Beth settled for a yellow one with a smiley face on the pocket. A.J. agonized over the remaining choices and finally told us that she was going to sleep on decision and come back with her mom the next day. I forgot about A.J.'s bag choice until the first day of school. When I got to the bus stop, there stood A.J. with a purple bag just like mine.

I pointed at it, incredulous. "You got my bag."

"I know," A.J. said. "I decided I wanted it. Who care if we match?"

Hadn't she been the one to say that matching was babyish?

"I care," I said, feeling the rage grow inside me.

A.J. rolled her eyes and smacked her gum. "Oh, Megan, like it matters. It's just a bag after all."

Beth was upset too, for her own reasons. "How come you two get to be twins and I'm left out? My bag is gay."

A.J. and I ignored her.

"But you said we shouldn't match," I accused A.J. as the bus pulled around the corner and screeched to a stop in front of us.

"Did I?" she said, fingering her stiff, feathered hair, freshly sprayed with several layers of Breck. "Well, who cares?"

A.J. used "who cares" (later replaced by "whatever") as the ultimate passive-aggressive response. I didn't recognize her tactic as such at the time; I only knew that she always managed to get her way and make me feel stupid if I fought back.

We boarded the bus, A.J. first. She sat down and I sat behind her, still furious. I watched Beth hesitate and then sit with me, recognizing that I had right on my side. The whole purple backpack issue could have escalated into a full-fledged fight, but I refused to let A.J.'s betrayal ruin the first day of school. It wasn't worth going to battle with her. The end result was seldom satisfying.

I covertly replace the Anne Klein suit on the rack as we make our way to the long line for the dressing rooms. When one becomes available, A.J. decides that we should share a room to save time. She strips down to her black thong and matching lace bra, contemplating which suit she should try on first. I steal a look at her in the mirror. Her body is even better than it was last summer. Her long limbs are perfectly toned from her wedding workout regimen, her skin already bronzed by routine applications of tanning cream and an occasional trip to the tanning beds.

I think of Seth. Surely he compared our bodies after (or even during since he "wasn't that drunk") our night together. Mine isn't nearly as good. I am shorter, softer, and whiter. And even though my boobs are bigger, hers are better. They are perkier, with the ideal nipple-to-areola-to-breast ratio.

"Stop looking at my fat!" A.J. squeals, catching my glance in the mirror.

Now I am forced to compliment her. "You're not fat, A.J. You look great. I can tell you've been working out."

"You can? What body part has improved?" A.J. likes her praise to be specific.

"Just everywhere. Your legs look thin-good." That is all she is getting from me.

She studies her legs, frowning at the reflection.

I undress, noting my own cotton underwear and nonmatching, slightly dingier cotton bra. I quickly try on my first suit, a navy and white tankini, revealing two inches of midriff. It is a compromise between Layla's one piece edict and A.J.'s preference for bikinis.

"Omigod! That looks so awesome on you! You gotta get it!" A.J. says, "Are you getting it?"

"I guess so," I say. It doesn't look awesome, but it's not bad. I have studied enough magazine articles about suits and body flaws over the years to know which suits will look decent on me. This one passes.

A.J. puts on a tiny black bikini with a triangular top and bare coverage in the bottom. She looks straight up hot. "You like?"

"It's good," I say, thinking that Seth will love it.

"Should I get it?"

I tell her to try the others on before making a decision. She obeys, taking the next one off the hanger. Of course, every suit looks amazing on her. She falls into none of those categories of body flaws in the magazines. After much discussion, I settle on the tankini and A.J. decides on three tiny bikinis-one red, one black and one nude colored number that is going to make her look naked from any kind of distance.

As we go to pay for our suits, A.J. grabs my arm. "Oh, shit! I almost forgot to tell you!"

"What?" I ask unnerved by her sudden outburst, even though I know she isn't going to say, "I forgot to tell you that I know you slept with Seth!"

"Phil likes you!" We might as well be in the tenth grade, from her tone and use of the word "likes".

I am intentionally obtuse. "I like him too," I say. "He's a nice guy." And a hell of an alibi.

"No, silly. I mean, he likes you. You must've done a good job at the party because he called Seth and got your number. I think he's going to ask you out for this weekend. Of course, I wanted it to be a double date, but Phil said no, he doesn't want witnesses." She drops her bikinis onto the counter and fumbles in her purse for her wallet.

"He got my number from Seth?" I ask, thinking that this is quite a development.

"Yeah, Seth was cute when he told me about it. He was…" She looks up, searching for the right word. "Sort of protective of you."

"What do you mean by 'protective'?" I ask, way more interested in Seth's role in this exchange that in Phil's intentions.

"Well, he gave Phil the number, but when he got off the phone he asked me all these questions, like were you seeing anyone and did I think you would like Phil. And you know, was he smart enough for you. Stuff like that. It was really cute."

I digest this information as the store clerk rings up A.J.'s bikinis.

"So what did you tell him?"

"I just said that you were totally single, and that of course you'd be into Phil. He's such a sweetie; don't you think?"

I shrug. Phil moved to New York from Chicago only a few months ago. I know very little about him, except that he and Seth became friends at Georgetown, where Phil never went to class and slept all the time. The most infamous story is that he overslept on the day of his statistics final exam, showed up twenty minutes late only to discover that he had thrown his remote into his backpack instead of his calculator.

I haven't yet determined whether he is a free spirit or simply a buffoon.

"So are you psyched? If you get a date in with him before our share starts, you will have dibs on him over Layla and Natalya."

I laugh and shake my head.

"Seriously." A.J. signs her receipt and flashes a smile at the clerk. "Layla would love to sink her nails in him."

"Who said I'm going on a date?"

"Oh, puh-lease. Don't even start with that shit. You're going. (A) He is such a cutie. And (B) Megan, no offense, but you can't exactly afford to be all picky, Ms. Haven't Been Laid in-what? Over a year?"

The store clerk looks up at my sympathetically. I glare at A.J. as I slide my tankini across the counter. Yeah, right-a year.

We leave Bloomingdales' and look for a cab on Third Avenue.

"So you'll go out with Phil?"

"I guess so."

"Promise?" she asks, getting her cell phone out of her purse.

"You want me to take a blood oath? Yes, I'll go," I say. "Who are you calling?"

"Seth. He bet me twenty bucks that you wouldn't go."

A.J.'s right- I have nothing else going on. But the real reason I say yes to Phil when he calls and asks me out is that Seth said I wouldn't go. And just in case he thought he had cast some sort of spell over me and I was going to turn Phil down because I'm preoccupied with the Incident, I will go out with Phil.

But as soon as I say yes, I start obsessing about what Phil really knows. Did Seth tell him anything? I decided that I must call Seth and find out. I hand up three times before I can dial the full number. My stomach is churning when he answers on the first ring. "Seth Rollins."

"So what does Phil know about what happened last Saturday?" I blurt out, my heart racing.

"Well, hello to you too," he says.

I soften slightly, "Hi Seth."

"Last Saturday? What was last Saturday? Refresh my memory?"

"I'm being serious! What did you tell him?" I am horrified to find myself talking in the girly, whiny way that A.J. has perfected.

"What do you think I told him?" he asks.

"Seth, tell me!"

"Oh, relax," he says, his tone still one of amusement. "I didn't tell him anything…what do you think this is? A high school locker room? Why would I tell anyone our business?"

Our business. Our. We. Us.

"I was just wondering what he knew. I mean, you told A.J. you were with him that night…"

"Yeah, I said, 'Phil, I was with you last night and we had breakfast together this morning-all right?' And that was that. I know that's not how it works with you girls-women."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean you and A.J. share every exhaustive detail with one another. Like what you ate that day and what brand of shampoo you plan on purchasing."

"And like when you sleep with one another's fiancés? That sort of detail?"

Seth laughs. "Yeah, that would be another example."

"Or like your bet that I'd say no to Phil?"

He laughs again, knowing that he is busted. "She told you that did she?"

"Yeah, she told me."

"And did it offend you?"

I realize that I am starting to relax, almost enjoying the conversation. "No…but it made me say yes to Phil."

"Oh!" he laughs. "I see how it works. So you're saying that had she not shared that piece of information with you, you would have turned my boy down?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I ask coyly, hardly recognizing myself.

"I would actually. Please enlighten me."

"I'm not sure…why did you think I'd say no?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," he retorts.

I smile. This is the full-fledged flirtatious banter.

"Okay, I thought you'd say no because Phil doesn't seem to be your type," he finally says.

"And who is?" I ask, and then I feel instantly remorseful. Flirting like this is not the path to redemption. It is no way to right my wrong. This is what my brain tells me, but my heart is galloping as I await his answer.

"I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out for about seven years."

I wonder what he means by this statement. I twist the cord around my fingers and can think of nothing to say in response. We should hang up now. This is going in a bad direction.

"Meg?" His voice is low and intimate.

I feel breathless, hearing him say my name like this. The one syllable is familiar, warm. "Yeah?"

"You still there?" he whispers.

I manage to say, "Yes, I'm still here."

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing," I lie.

I have to lie. Because what I am thinking is, maybe you are my type a little bit more that I once thought.


	5. Chapter 5

Five

Maybe I don't have a type at all. When I consider my past relationships there is no composite picture. Not that the sample would be considered statistically significant-other than Roman in high school, I have had only three boyfriends.

My real dating history began my first semester of college at Duke. I lived in a coed dorm, and every night we all gathered in the lounge to study (or pretend to), hand out, and watch shows like Beverly Hills, 90210, and Melrose Place. It was in that lounge that I developed a serious crush on Ted DiBiase from Louisiana. Ted was scrawny and nerdy, but I was crazy about him. I loved his intelligence, his slow, smooth drawl, and the way his brown eyes fixed on you when you talked, as though he really cared about what you had to say. My roommate Kaitlyn, a Texan girl with big biceps, declared my feelings a "total fucking mystery" but still encouraged me to ask Ted out. I didn't, but I did work hard at developing a friendship, cracking through his shy exterior to talk to him about poetry and literature. I really believed that I was making progress with Ted when Cody Rhodes came in for the kill.

Cody was the opposite of Ted- a boisterous sports guy with a loud laugh. He played every intramural sport in the book and was always strolling into the lounge all sweaty with a story about how his team came from behind in the last second to win the game. He was the kind of guy who was proud of how much he could eat and the fact that he could get by in literature classes without ever reading a book.

One Thursday night, Cody, Ted, and I were the last three in the lounge, talking about religion, the death penalty, and the meaning of life, the stuff I imagined discussing in college, away from A.J. and her more shallow pursuits. Cody was an atheist and for the death penalty. Like me, Ted was Methodist and against the death penalty. All three of us were unclear on the meaning of life. We talked and talked and I was determined to outlast Cody and end up with Ted. But sometime after two, Ted threw in the towel. "Awright y'all, I have an early class."

"C'mon, man. Skip it. I never make my eight o'clock," Cody said proudly.

Ted laughed. "I figure I'm payin' for it, I should go."

This was another thing I liked about Ted. He was paying for his own education, unlike most of the rich kids at Duke. So he said good night, and I wistfully watched him amble out of the lounge. Cody didn't miss a beat, just kept yapping, rehashing the fact that we were both from Indiana-just two towns apart-and that both of our fathers had attended Purdue (his dad had been a walk on for the basketball team). We played the name game and got two hits. Cody knew Justin, A.J.'s ex-boyfriend, from reading the local sports page. And we both knew of Eva Marie, a promiscuous girl from the town between ours.

Finally, when I said I really must get to bed, Cody followed me upstairs and kissed me in the stairwell. I thought of Ted, but I still kissed Cody back, excited to be getting some real collegiate experience. Beth had already met her now-husband Adam (and lost her virginity to him), and A.J. had hooked up with four guys by my latest count.

The next morning I regretted kissing Cody. Even more so when I spotted Ted hunkered down in the library stacks, his head bent over a textbook. But not enough to keep me from kissing Cody again that weekend, this time in the laundry room as we waited for our clothes to dry. And so it continued until everybody in our dorm, including Ted, knew that Cody and I were an item. Kaitlyn was psyched for me-said that Cody blew Ted away and had the cutest butt in the dorm. I wrote to A.J. and Beth, telling them about my new boyfriend and how I was over Ted (only partly true) and how happy I was (happy enough). They both had one question: was I going to go all the way with Cody?

I was ambivalent on the subject of sex. Part of me wanted to wait until I was deeply in love, maybe even married. But I was also intensely curious to find out what all the fuss was about, and desperately wanted to be sophisticated and worldly. So after Cody and I had been together a respectable six weeks, I marched over to the school health clinic and returned to my dorm with a prescription for Lo/Ovral, the birth control pill that A.J. guaranteed would not cause weight gain. A month later, with the added protection of a condom, Cody and I did the great deed. It was his first time too. The earth didn't move during those two and a half minutes, as A.J. claimed it did during her first time with Carlos. But it also didn't hurt as much as Beth warned me it would. I was relieved to have it out of the way and happy to join my hometown friends in all their womanly glory. Cody and I embraced in my bottom bunk and said that we loved each other. Ours was a better first time than most.

But that spring, there were two red flags indicating that Cody wasn't the man of my dreams. First, he joined a fraternity and took the whole thing way too seriously. One night when I teased him about the frat's secret handshake, he told me that if I disrespected his brotherhood, I was disrespecting him. Please. Second, Cody became obsessed with Duke Basketball, sleeping out in tents for tickets to big games and painting his face blue, jumping up and down courtside with the other "Cameron Crazies."

The whole scene was bit much, but I guess I would have been fine with his enthusiasm if he had been from New Hampshire or another state with no huge basketball ties. But he was from Indiana, Big Ten country. His father played for the Boilermakers, for God's sake. And there he was, this sudden die-hard "I've like Duke since the dawn of time and I'm all tight with Bobby Hurley because he once drank at my frat house" kind of a fan. But I looked beyond these imperfections, and we forged ahead to sophomore and then junior year.

Then one night, after Wake Forest beat Duke in hoops, Cody showed up at my place in a foul mood. We began to argue about nothing and everything. First it was petty matters: he said that I snored and hogged the bed (how can you not hog a twin bed?); I complained that he consistently mixed up our toothbrushes (who makes that mistake?). The arguing escalated to more significant issues. And there was no turning back when he called me a boring intellectual and I called him a shameless bandwagoner who actually believed that his painted blue face contributed to Duke's championships. He told me to lighten up and get some school pride, before storming off.

He returned the next day with a solemn face and his scripted "we need to have a talk" introduction followed by the "we'll always be close" conclusion. I was more stunned than sad, but I agreed that maybe we should be having a more diverse college experience, which really meant dating other people. We said we would always be friends, even though I knew we didn't have enough in common for that to happen.

I didn't shed a tear until I saw him at a party, holding hands with Summer Rae, who had also lived in the freshman dorm. I didn't want to be holding his hand, so I knew my reaction was only a mix of nostalgia and hurt pride. And regret that maybe I should have pursued Ted, who had long since been snatched up by another discerning undergraduate.

I phoned A.J. in a rare case of role reversal, seeking comfort from the relationship pro. She told me not to look back, that I had some good, rah-rah college memories with Cody, something I wouldn't have had with Ted, who would have dragged me down socially. "Besides," she said earnestly, "Cody taught you the basics of predictable, missionary style sex. And that's worth something, right?" It was her idea of a pep talk, which I guessed helped a little.

I kept hoping that Ted and his girlfriend would break up, but it never happened. I didn't date again at Duke, nor did I through most of law school. The long drought finally ended with Wade Barrett.

I met Wade our first year of law school at a party, but for the next three years we barely talked, only said hello in passing. Then we both found ourselves in the same small class-The Empowered Self: Law and Society in the Age of Individualism. Wade spoke in class often, but not just to hear himself speak, as half of the people in law school did. He actually had interesting things to say. After I made a decent point one day, he asked if I wanted to grab a coffee to discuss it further. He ordered his black and I remember copying him because it seemed more sophisticated than dumping milk and sugar into my cup. After coffee, we took a long walk through the Village, stopping in CD stores and used book shops. We went to dinner after that, and by the end of the evening it was clear that we were going to become a couple.

I was thrilled to have a boyfriend again and became quickly enthralled with most things about Wade. I liked his face, for one. He had the coolest eyes that turned up slightly in a way that would have made him look Asian but for his light coloring. I also liked his personality. He was soft-spoken but strong willed and politically active in a defiant, angry sort of way. Compared to Cody, who would only muster passion for a basketball team, Wade seemed so real. He was intense in bed too. Although he had had few partners before me, he seemed very experienced, always urging me to try something new. "How's this?" "How's that?" he would ask, and then would memorize his position and get it just right the next time.

Wade and I graduated from law school and spent the summer in the city, studying for the bar exam. Every day we went to the library together, breaking only for meals and sleep. Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, we crammed thousands of rules and facts and laws and theories into our crowded brains. We were both driven less the desire to succeed than by an all-pervasive fear of failure, which Wade chalked up to our being only children. The relentless ordeal brought us closer. We were both miserable, but happy in our misery together.

But that fall, only one of us stayed miserable. Wade began working as an assistant district attorney in Queens, and I started my law firm job in Midtown. He loved his job, and I hated mine. As Wade interviewed witnesses and prepared for trial, I was relegated to document productions-the lowliest task in the legal profession. Every night I'd sit in conference rooms studying piles of papers in endless cardboard boxes. I'd look at the dates on those documents and think, I was just getting my driver's license when this letter was typed, and here it is, still caught in an endless cycle of litigation. It all seemed so pointless.

So my life was bleak-except for my relationship with Wade. I began to rely on him more and more as my sole source of happiness. I often told him that I loved him, and felt more relief than joy when he said it back. I started to think about marriage, even talked about our theoretical children and where we all might live.

Then one night Wade in I went to a bar in the Village to hear a folk singer from Brooklyn named Jojo Offerman. After her performance, Wade and I and a few other people chatted with her as she put her guitar away with the gentleness of a new mother.

"Your lyrics are beautiful…what inspires you?" Wade asked her, big-eyed.

I was instantly worried; I remembered that look from our first coffee date. I became even more distressed when he bought a copy of her CD. She wasn't that good. I think Wade and Jojo went on a date a week later, because there was one night when he was unaccounted for and didn't answer his cell phone until after midnight. I was too afraid to ask where he had been. Besides, I already knew. He had changed. He looked at me differently, a shadow over his face, his mind somewhere else.

Sure enough, we had the big talk soon after that. He was very forthright. "I have feelings for someone else," he said. "I always promised that I would tell you."

I remembered those conversations well, remembered liking the strong confident way I sounded as I told him that if he ever met someone else, he should just tell me outright, that I could handle it. Of course, I didn't think at the time that it would ever leave the hypothetical realm. I wanted to suck back all my cavalier instructions, tell him instead that I would greatly prefer a gentle lie about needing some space or some time apart.

"Is it Jojo?" I asked a catch in my throat.

He looked shocked. "How did you know?"

"I could just tell," I said, unable to fight back sobs.

"I'm so sorry," he said, hugging me. "It kills me to hurt you like this. But I had to be honest, I owe you that."

So he got a new girl and he got to be noble. I tried to be angry, but how can you be made at someone for not wanting to be with you? Instead, I just sulked around, gained a few pounds, and swore off men.

Wade kept calling for a few months after our breakup. I knew he was just being nice, but the calls gave me false hope. I could never resist asking about his girlfriend. "Jojo is fine," he would say sheepishly. Then once, he answered, "We're moving in together…and I think we're going to get engaged…" His voice trailed off.

"Congratulations. That's great. I'm really happy for you," I said.

"Thank you, Megan. It means a lot to hear you say that."

"Yeah…Best of luck and all, but I don't think I want you to call me anymore, okay?"

"I understand," he said, probably relieved to be off the hook.

I haven't heard from Wade since that conversation. I'm not sure if or when they married, but I still look for Jojo Offerman sometimes when I'm shopping for CDs. So far she hasn't made it big.

Looking back, I question whether I really loved Wade, or just the security of our relationship. I wonder if my feelings for him didn't have a lot to do with hating my job. From the bar exam through that first hellish year as an associate, Wade was my escape. And sometimes that can feel an awful lot like love.

A reasonable time passed after Wade. I lost my breakup weight, got my hair highlighted, and agreed to a string of blind dates. At worst they were awful. At best they were simply uncomfortable and forgettable. Then I met Alex Riley at Spy Bar, down in Soho. I was with A.J. and some of her friends from work and he and his oh-so-hip friends approached us. Alex of course, wooed A.J. at first, but she pushed him my way-literally with her hand on the small of his back-with firm directions to "talk to my friend." To her, it was the ultimate in generosity. Even though she had Seth, she was never one to turn down male attention. "He's really cute," A.J. kept whispering. "Go for it."

She was right, Alex was cute. But he was also all about image. He was the kind of guy who retires his college cool-boy uniform of filthy, intentionally broken-in baseball caps, fraternity party T-shirts, and woven leather belts, swapping it for his twenty something urban cool-boy uniform of gripping, cotton spandex T-shirts, tight black pants with a slight sheen, and loads of hair gel. He told too many "a guy walks into a bar" jokes (none funny) and "I'm a badass trader" war stories (none impressive). When he bought me a drink on that first night, he threw down a one hundred dollar bill and told the bartender in a loud voice that he was sorry but he didn't have anything smaller. In a nutshell, he epitomized what A.J. and I call TTH-for Trying Too Hard.

But Alex was smart enough, fun enough, and nice enough. So when he asked for my number, I gave it to him. And when he called and asked me out to dinner, I went. And when he propositioned me, four dates later, ribbed condom in hand, I shrugged inside but said yes. He had a great body, but the sex was just average. My mind often wandered to work, and once when I heard SportsCenter in the background, I even pretended he was Andy Roddick. Many times I came close to breaking up with him, but A.J. kept telling me to give him another chance, that he was rich and cute. Way richer and cuter than Wade, she'd point out. As if that was what it was all about.

Then one night, Layla spotted Alex kissing a petite, somewhat trashy-looking blonde at Merchants. When the girl went to the bathroom, Layla confronted Alex, warning him that if he didn't confess his infidelity, she would tell me herself. So the next day, Alex called and sputtered an apology, saying he was getting back together with his ex, who I assume was the girl at Merchants. I almost told him that I wanted to break up too-it was the truth. But I cared so little that I didn't bother setting the record straight. I simply said okay, best of luck, and that was that.

Every now and then I run into Alex at the New York Sports Club near work. We are very cordial to each other-once I even used the Stairmaster beside his, not caring that my face was broken out or that I was wearing my sloppiest gray sweats (A.J. says they should never be worn in public). On that occasion, we made small talk. I inquired about his girlfriend, letting him ramble on about their upcoming trip to Jamaica. It took no effort at all to be nice, another clear indication that I had nothing real invested in our relationship. In some ways, in fact, I shouldn't even put Alex in the serious-boyfriend category. But because I slept with him (and see myself as the sort of woman who would only sleep with someone in a legitimate relationship), I put him in that unfortunately exclusive club.

I review my three boyfriends, the three men I slept with in my twenties, searching for a common thread. Nothing. No consistent features, coloring, stature, personality. But one theme does emerge: they all picked me. And then dumped me. I played a passive role. Waiting for Ted and then settling for Cody. Waiting to feel more for Wade. Then waiting to feel less, waiting for Alex to go away and leave me in peace.

And now Seth, my number four; and I am still waiting.

For all of this to blow over.

For his September wedding.

For someone who gives me that tingly feeling as I watch him sleeping in my bed early on a Sunday morning. Someone who isn't engaged to my best friend.


	6. Chapter 6

Six

On Saturday night, I cab down to Gotham Bar and Grill with an open mind and a positive attitude-half the battle before any date-thinking maybe Phil will be the someone I'm looking for.

I walk into the restaurant and spot him right away, sitting at the bar, wearing baggy jeans and a slightly wrinkled, green plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up haphazardly-the opposite of TTH.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, as Phil stands to greet me. "Had some trouble getting a cab."

"No worries," he says, offering me a stool next to his.

I sit down. He smiles, exposing two rows of very white, straight teeth. Possibly his best feature, along with his tattoos.

"So what can I get you?" he asks me.

"What are you having?"

"Gin and tonic."

"Oh, well I'll have a rum and coke."

He glances toward the bartender with a twenty extended and then looks back at me. "You look great, Megan."

I thank him. It's been a long time since I've received a proper compliment from a guy. It occurs to me that Seth and I didn't get around to compliments.

Phil finally gets the bartender's attention and orders me a Captain Morgan Spiced Rum and Coke. Then he says, "So, last time I saw you, you were all pretty wasted…That was a fun night."

"Yeah, I was pretty out of it," I say, hoping that Seth told me the truth about keeping Phil in the dark. "But at least I made it home before sunup. A.J. told me you and Seth were out pretty late that night."

"Yeah, we hung out for a while," Phil says, without looking at me. This is a good sign; he is covering for his friend but has trouble lying. He takes his change from the bartender, leaves two bills and some coins on the bar, and hands me my drink. "Here you go."

"Thanks." I smile, stir and sip from the skinny straw.

An emaciated Asian girl wearing leather pants and too much lip liner taps Phil on the arm and tells him that our table is ready. We carry our drinks, following her to the restaurant area beyond the bar. As we sit, she hands up two oversized menus and a separate wine list.

"Your server will be with you shortly," she says, before flipping her long, black hair and waltzing off.

Phil glances at the wine list and asks if I want to order a bottle.

"Sure," I say.

"Red or white?"

"Either."

"Do you think you're going to have fish?" He looks at the menu.

"Maybe, but I don't mind red with fish."

"I'm not very good at picking wines," he says, cracking his knuckles below the table. "You wanna have a look?"

"That's okay. You can pick, whatever is fine."

"All right then, I'll just wing it," he says, flashing me his "I never skipped a night wearing my retainer smile.

We study our menus, discussion what looks good. Phil slides his chair closer to the table, and I feel his knee against mine.

"I almost didn't ask you out, since we're in the same summer house and all," Phil says, his eyes still scanning the menu. "Seth told me that's one of the cardinal rules here. Don't get involved with someone in your house. At least not until August."

He laughs as I store away this fact for later analysis: Seth discouraged our date.

"But then I thought, you know, what the hell-I dig her, I'm going to call her. I mean, I've been thinking about asking you out since Seth first introduced us. Right when I moved here, but I was seeing this girl from Chicago for a minute in there and thought I should wrap things up before I called you. You know, just to make it all neat and kosher. So I finally ended that deal…and here we are." He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand as if relieved to make this confession.

"I think you made the right decision."

"To wait?"

"No, to call." I give him my most alluring smile, fleetingly reminding myself of A.J. She doesn't have the market cornered on female attractiveness, I think I don't always have to be the serious, dowdy one.

Our waitress interrupts the moment. "Hello, how are you this evening?"

"Fine," Phil says cheerfully, and then lowers his voice. "For a first date."

I laugh, but our waitress musters only a stiff, tight-lipped smile. "Can I tell you about the specials?"

"Go for it," Phil says.

She stares into the space just about our heads, rattling off the list of specials, calling everything "nice"-"a nice sea bass," "a nice risotto," and so on. I nod and only half listen while I think about Seth telling Phil not to ask me out, wondering what that means.

"So would you like to start with something to drink?"

"Yeah…think we're going with a bottle of red. What do you recommend?" He squints at the menu.

"The Marjorie pinot noir is superb." She points down at the wine list.

"Fine. That one then. Perfect."

She flashes another prim smile my way. "And are you ready to order?"

"Yes, I think we are," I say and then order the garden salad and tuna.

"And how would you like that done?"

"Medium," I say.

Phil orders the pea soup and the lamb.

"Excellent choices," our waitress says, with an affected tilt of the head.

She gathers our menus and turns on her heels.

"Man," Phil says.

"What?"

"That chick has zero personality."

I laugh.

He smiles. "Where were we?...Oh yeah, the Hamptons."

"Right."

"So Seth says it's never a good idea to go out with someone in your own house. And I'm like, 'Dude, I'm not playin by your dumb East Coast rules.' If we end up hating each other, we hate each other."

"I don't think we're going to hate each other," I say.

Our waitress returns with the wine, uncorks the bottle, and pours some into his glass. Phil takes a healthy sip and reports that it's great, skipping the usual pretentious ceremony. You can tell a lot about a guy by watching him take that first sip of wine. It's not a good sign when he does the whole swirling things, burying his nose into the glass, taking a slow, thoughtful sip, pausing with a furrowed brow followed by a slight nod so as not to appear too enthusiastic, as if to say, this passes, but I have had plenty better. If he is truly a wine connoisseur, that's one thing. But it is usually just a bunch of show, painful to observe.

As our waitress pours my wine, I ask Phil if he knows about the bet.

He shakes his head. "What bet?"

I wait until we are alone again-it's bad enough that our waitress knows this is a first date. "Seth and A.J. had a bet about whether I'd say yes when you asked me out."

"Get outta here." He drops his jaw for effect. "Who thought you'd go and who thought you'd diss me?"

"Oh, I forget." I pretend to be confused. "That's not the point. The point is-"

"That they are so up and in our business!" He shakes his head. "Bastards."

"I know."

He lifts his glass. "To eluding Seth and A.J. No sharing details of tonight with those nosy bastards."

I laugh. "No matter how great-or how bad-our date is!"

Our glasses touch and we sip in unison.

"This date is not going to be bad. Trust me on that."

I smile. "I trust you."

I do trust him, I think. There is something disarming about his sense of humor, and easy, Midwestern style. And he's not engaged to A.J. A nice bonus.

Then, as if on cue, Phil asks me how long I've known A.J.

"Twenty-some years. First time I saw her she was dressed up in this fancy little sundress, and I was wearing these dumb Winnie-the-Pooh shorts from Sears. I thought, now there's a girl with style."

Phil laughs. "I bet you looked cute in your Pooh shorts."

"Not quite…"

"And then you were the one who introduced A.J. and Seth, right? He said you were good friends in law school?"

Right, my good friend Seth. The last person I slept with.

"Uh-huh. I met him first semester of law school. I knew right away that he and A.J. would make a good match," I say. A bit of an exaggeration, but I want to set the record straight that I never considered Seth for myself. Which I didn't, and still don't.

"They even look alike…No mystery as to how their kids will turn out."

"Yes, they will be beautiful." I feel an inexplicable knot in my chest, picturing Seth and A.J. cradling their newborn. For some reason, I had never thought beyond the wedding in September.

"What?" Phil asks, obviously catching my expression. Which doesn't mean that he is perceptive, necessarily; my face is just less than inscrutable. It is a curse.

"Nothing," I say. Then I smile and sit up a bit straighter. It is time for a transition. "Enough about Seth and A.J."

"Yeah," he says. "I hear you."

We start the typical first-date conversation, discussing our jobs, our families and general backgrounds. We cover his Internet start-up that went under and his move to New York. Our food arrives. We eat and talk and order another bottle of wine. There is more laughter than silence. I am even comfortable enough to take a bite of his lamb when he offers it to me.

After dinner, Phil pays the bill. It is always an awkward moment for me, although offering to pay (whether sincerely or with the fake reach for the wallet) is so much more awkward. I thank him, and we make our way to the door, where we decide to get another drink.

"You pick a place," Phil says.

I choose a new bar that just opened near my apartment. We get in a cab, talking the whole way to the Upper East Side. Then we sit at the bar, talking more.

I ask him to tell me about his hometown of Chicago. He pauses for a beat and then says he has a good story for me.

"Only about ten percent of my senior class went to college," he starts. "Most students don't even bother with SATs at my high school. But I took the thing, did fine on it, applied to Georgetown, and got in. Of course, I didn't mention it to anyone in school-just went about my business, hanging with my boys and whatnot. Then the faculty catches wind of the Georgetown thing and one day my math teacher, Mr. Gilhooly, takes it upon himself to announce my good news to the class."

He shakes his head as if the memory is painful. "So everyone was like, 'So what? Big fucking deal.'" Phil imitates his bored classmates by folding his arms across his chest and then patting his mouth with an open hand. "And I guess their reaction pissed Mr. Gilhooly off. He wanted them to truly grasp the depth of their inadequacies and future doom. So he proceeded to draw this big graph on the board showing my earning potential with a college degree versus their earning potential bussing tables at Shoney's. And how the gap would get worse and worse with time."

"No way!"

"Yeah. So they're all sitting there like, 'Fuck Phil,' right? Like I think I'm hot shit cause I'm going to make six figures someday. I wanted to kill that dude." Phil throws up his hands. "Thanks for nothing, Mr. Gilhooly. Way to win me some friends."

I laugh.

"So what the fuck am I supposed to do now? I gotta fight the image of dork gunner boy, right? So I go out of my way to show everybody I don't give a shit about academics. Started smokin' weed every day and never stopped the practice in college. Hence, well, you know, my finishing next to last at Georgetown. I'm sure you've heard about the remote?" he asks, peeling the label off his Heineken.

I smile and tap his hand. "Yeah, I know the story. Except the version I heard was that you were dead last."

"Aww, man!" Phil shakes his head. "Seth never gets that shit right. My one-point-six-seven beat someone out! Next to last, dude! Next to last!"

After two drinks, I glance at my watch and say it's getting late.

"Okay, I'll walk you home?"

"Sure."

We stroll over to Third Avenue and stop in front of my apartment.

"Well, good night, Phil. Thank you so much for dinner. I had a really nice time," I say, meaning it.

"Yeah, so did I. it was good." He licks his lips quickly. I know what is coming. "And I'm glad we're in the same house this summer."

"I am too."

Then he asks if he can kiss me. It is a question I don't usually like. Just do it, I always think. But for some reason it doesn't bother me coming from Phil.

I nod and he leans over and gives me a medium-long kiss.

We separate. My heart isn't palpitating, but I am content.

"You think A.J. and Seth bet on that?" he asks.

I laugh because I had been wondering the same thing.

"How did it go?" A.J. yells into the phone the next morning.

I am just out of the shower, dripping wet. "Where are you?"

"In the car with Seth. We're on our way back to the city," she says. "We went antiquing, remember?"

"Yes," I say. "I remember."

"How did it go?" she asks again, smacking her gum. She can't even wait until she gets home to get the scoop on my date.

I don't answer.

"Well?"

"We have a bad connection. Your cell is breaking up," I say. "I can't hear you."

"Nice try. Give me the goods."

"What goods?"

"Megan! Don't play dump with me. Tell me about your date! We're dying to know."

I hear Seth echo her in the background, "Just dying!"

"It was a lovely evening," I say, trying to wrap a towel around my head without dropping the phone.

She squeals. "Yes! I knew it. So details! Details!"

I tell her that we went to Gotham Bar and Grill, I ordered the tuna, he had lamb.

"Megan! Get to the good stuff! Did you hook up?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"I have my reasons."

"That means you did," she says. "Otherwise you'd just say no."

"Think what you want."

"C'mon, Megan!"

I tell her no way, I am not going to be her car-ride entertainment. She reports my words to Seth and I hear him say, "Bruce is our car-ride entertainment. Tell her that."

Tunnel of Love is playing in the background.

"Tell Seth that's Bruce's worst album."

"They're all bad albums. Springsteen sucks," Darcy says.

"Did she just say this album is bad?" I hear Seth ask A.J.

A.J. says yeah and a few seconds later "Thunder Road" is blaring. A.J. shouts at him to turn it down. I smile.

"So?" A.J. asks. "Are you going to tell us or not?"

"Not."

"If I promise not to tell Seth?"

"Still not."

A.J. makes an exasperated sound. Then she tells me that she will find out one way or another and hangs up.

The next I hear from Seth is on Thursday night, the day before we are scheduled to leave for the Hamptons.

"Do you want a ride? We have room for one more," he says. "Layla is coming with us, and your boyfriend is in."

"Well, in that case, I'd love a ride," I say, trying to sound breezy and casual. I need to show him that I've moved on. I have moved on.

At five o'clock the next day, we are assembled in Seth's car, hoping to get ahead of the traffic. But the roads are already clogged. It takes us an hour to get through Midtown Tunnel and nearly four hours to make the 110-mile drive to East Hampton. I sit in the backseat between Layla and Phil. A.J. is in a giddy, hyper mood. She spends most of the car ride facing the three of us in the backseat, raising various topics, asking questions, and generally carrying the conversation. She makes things feel celebratory; her good moods are as infectious as her bad ones are contaminating. Phil is the second most talkative in our group. For a thirty-mile stretch, he and A.J. are a running comedy routine, making fun of each other. She calls him lazy, he calls her high maintenance, Layla and I chime in occasionally. Seth says virtually nothing. He is so quiet that at one point A.J. yells at him to stop being such a bore.

"I'm driving," he says. "I need to concentrate."

Then he looks at me in the rearview mirror. I wonder what he's thinking. His eyes give nothing away.

It is getting dark when we stop for snacks and beers at a gas station on Route 27. Layla sidles up to me in front of the chips, loops her arm through mine, and says, "I can tell he really likes you." For a second I am startled, thinking that she means Seth. Then I realize she is talking about Phil.

"Phil and I are just friends," I say, selecting a can of Pringles Light.

"Oh, c'mon now. A.J. told me about your date," she says.

Layla is always in the know about everything-the latest trend, the hot new bar opening, the next big party. She has her manicure fingers on the pulse of the city. And knowing the details of Manhattan's singles in part of her bag too.

"It was just one date," I say, happy that A.J. has not determined what happened with Phil, despite a barrage of questioning. She even probed him with an e-mail; he forwarded me the message with his subject line reading "Nosy bastards."

"Well, the summer is long," Layla says wisely. "You're smart not to commit until you see what else is out there."

We arrive at our summer house, a small cottage with limited charm. Layla found it when she came out alone in mid-February, disgusted with all of us for not sacrificing a free weekend to house-hunt. She organized everything, including setting up the other half of the share. As we tour the house, she apologizes again for the lack of a pool, and laments that the common areas aren't really large enough for good parties. We reassure her that the big backyard with a grill makes up for that. Plus, we are close enough to the beach to walk, which, in my opinion, is the most important thing about a summerhouse.

We unpack the car and find our bedrooms. A.J. and Seth have the room with the king-sized bed. Phil has his own room, which could come in handy. And Layla has her own room-a reward for her efforts. I am rooming with Natalya, who blew off work today and took the train in last night. Natalya is always blowing off work. I don't know anyone more laid-back about work, particularly at a big firm. She comes to work late every day-closer and closer to eleven with each passing year- and she refuses to play the games that other associates play, like leaving a jacket on the back of their chair or a cup full of coffee on their desk before leaving at night so that partners will think they've only left for a short break. She billed fewer than two thousand hours last year and therefore received no bonus. "Do the math and you'll realize that making a bonus comes out to less per hour than flipping burgers at McDonald's," she said this year on the day checks were handed out.

I call her on my cell now. "Where are you?"

"Cyril's," she shouts over the crowd. "Want me to stay here or meet you guys somewhere?"

I pass along the question to A.J. and Layla.

"Tell her we're going straight to the Talkhouse," A.J. says. "It's already late."

Then, as I expected, Layla and A.J. insist on changing their clothes.

And Phil, who is still wearing his work clothes, goes to change too. So Seth and I sit in the den, opposite each other, waiting. He holds the remote control but does not turn the TV on. It is the first time we have been alone since the Incident. I am conscious of sweat accumulating under my arms. Why am I nervous? What happened is behind us. It is over. I must relax, act normal.

"Aren't you going to doll up for your boyfriend?" Seth asks quietly, without looking at me.

"Very funny." Even the mere exchange of words now feels illicit.

"Well, aren't you?"

"I'm fine in this," I say, glancing down at my favorite jeans and black knit top. What he doesn't know is that I already put much thought into this outfit when I changed after work.

"So you and Phil make a swell couple." He glares furtively at the staircase.

"Thanks. So do you and A.J."

We exchange a lingering look, too loaded with potential meaning to begin to interpret. And then, before he can respond, A.J. bounds down the stairs in a curve-hugging chartreuse sheath. She hands Seth a pair of scissors and crouches at his feet, lifting her hair. "Can you cut the tag, please?"

He snips. She stands and spins.

"Well? How do I look?"

"Nice," he says, and then glances at me sheepishly as if the one-word compliment to his fiancé might somehow upset me.

"You look awesome," I say, to show him that it doesn't. Not in the least.

We pay the cover and make our way through the massive crowd at Stephen's Talkhouse, our favorite bar in Amagansett, saying hello to all of the people we know from various circles back in the city. We find Natalya at the bar with a Budweiser, wearing cutoff jeans, a white scoop-neck T-shirt and the kind of plain blue flip-flops that A.J. and Layla would only wear to their pedicurist. There is not a pretentious bone in Natalya's boy, and as always, I am so happy to see her.

"Hey, guys!" she yells. "What took you so long?"

"Traffic was a bitch," Seth says. "And then certain people had to get ready."

"Well, of course we had to get ready!" A.J. says, looking down to admire her outfit.

Natalya insists that we need to kick start to our evening and orders a round of shots. She hands them out as we stand in a tight circle, ready to drink together.

"To the best summer ever!" A.J. says, tossing her long, coconut scented hair behind her shoulders. She says it at the start of every summer. She always has wildly high expectations that I never share. But maybe this summer she will be right.

We all throw back our shots, which taste like straight vodka. Then Seth buys another round, and when he hands me my beer, his fingers graze mine. I wonder if he does it on purpose.

"Thank you," I say.

"Anytime," he murmurs, holding my gaze as he did in the car.

I count to three silently and then look away.

As the night wears on, I find myself watching Seth and A.J. interact. I am surprised by the territorial pangs I feel as I observe them together. It is not exactly jealousy, but something related to it. I notice little things that didn't use to register. Like once, she slipped her four fingers into the back of his jeans right at the top. And another time, when he was standing behind her, he gathered all of her hair in one hand and sort of held it up in a makeshift ponytail before dropping it back at her shoulders.

Right now, he leans in to say something to her. She nods and smiles. I imagine that his words were "I want you tonight" or something along those lines. I wonder if they have had sex since he and I were together. Surely, yes. And that bothers me in some weird way. Maybe that happens whenever you watch someone on your List with someone else. I tell myself that I have no right to be jealous. That I had no business adding him to my List in the first place.

I try to focus on Phil. I stand near him, talk to him, laugh at his jokes. When he asks me to dance, I say yes without hesitation. I follow him onto the crowded dance floor. We work up a good sweat, dancing and laughing. I realize that although there is no great chemistry, I am having fun. And who knows? Maybe this will lead to something.

"They're dying to know what happened on our date," Phil says into my ear.

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

"A.J. inquired again.

"She did?"

"Yup."

"When?"

"Tonight. Right after we got here."

I hesitate and then ask, "Did Seth say anything?"

"No, but he was standing right next to her looking pretty darn interested."

"Some nerve," I say playfully.

"I know, the nosy bastards…and don't look now, but they're staring at us." His face touches mine, his whiskers scratching my cheek.

I drape my arms over his shoulders and move my body flush against his. "Well then," I say. "Let's give them something to look at."


	7. Chapter 7

Seven

"So what's the deal with you and Phil?" Natalya asks me the next morning as she picks through the pile of clothes that you already accumulated beside her bed. I resist the urge to fold them for her.

"No deal, really." I get out of bed and promptly start to make it.

"Potential?" She pulls on a pair of sweats and ties the drawstring, cinching them at hip level.

"Maybe."

Last year Natalya broke up with Dean, her boyfriend of four years, a nice, smart, all-around great guy. But Natalya was convinced that as good as the relationship was, it wasn't good enough. "He's not the One," she kept saying. I remember A.J. informing her that she might revise that opinion in her mid-thirties, a statement Natalya and I both rehashed at length later. A classic, tactless A. . Yet, as time passes, I can't help wondering if Natalya made a mistake. Here she is, one year later, embroiled in the fruitless blind-dating scene while, rumor has it, her ex has moved into a Tribeca loft with a twenty-three-year-old med student who is a dead ringer for Cameron Diaz. Natalya claims that it doesn't bother her. I find that very hard to believe, even for someone with her moxie. In my case, she doesn't seem to be in a hurry to find a Dean replacement.

"Summer potential or long-term potential?" she asks me, running her hands through her long, sandy blonde hair.

"I don't know. Maybe long-term potential."

"Well, you looked like a total couple last night," she says. "Out there dancing."

"We did?" I ask, thinking that if we looked like a couple, Seth must know that I'm not dwelling on him.

She nods, finds her "Corporate Challenge" T-shirt, and sniff the armpits before tossing it over to me. "Is this clean? Smell it."

"I'm not gonna smell your shirt," I say, throwing it back. "You're gross."

She laughs and puts on her obviously clean enough shirt. "Yeah…you two were out there whispering and laughing. I thought for sure you were going to hook up last night, and that I would get the room to myself."

I laugh. "Sorry to disappoint."

"You disappointed him more."

"Nah, he just said good night when we got home. Not even a kiss."

Natalya knows about the first kiss. "Why not?"

"I don't know. I think we're both proceeding with caution. We'll have a lot of contact between now and September…you know, he's in the wedding party too. If things blow up, it could be bad."

She looks as if she is considering my point. For one second I am tempted to tell Natalya everything about Seth. I trust her. But I don't share, reasoning that I can always tell her, but I can't untell her and erase the knowledge from her mind. When we are all together, I would feel even more awkward, constantly thinking that she's thinking about it. And anyway…it is over. There is really nothing to talk about.

We go downstairs. Our housemates have already assembled around the kitchen table.

"It's kick-ass outside," A.J. says, standing, stretching, and showing off her flat stomach under a cropped T-shirt. She sits back down at the table, returning to her game of solitaire.

Layla looks up from her Palm Pilot. "Perfect beach weather."

"Perfect golf weather," Natalya says, looking at Seth and Phil. "Any interest?"

"Um, maybe," Seth says, glancing up from the sports page. "Want me to call and see if we can get a tee time?"

A.J. slams her cards onto the table and looks around defiantly.

Natalya doesn't seem to notice A.J.'s objection to a round of golf because she says, "Or we could just pop over to the driving range."

"No! No! No! No golf!" A.J. pounds the table again, this time with her fist. "Not on our first day! We have to stay together! All of us, right Megan?"

"Guess that means no golf today," Seth says, before I am forced to become involved in the great golf debate. "A.J.'s orders."

Natalya gets up from the table with a disgusted look on her face.

"I just want us all to be together at the beach," A.J. says, putting a benevolent spin on her selfishness.

"And you make the prospect seem so pleasant." Seth stands walks over to the sink and starts making coffee.

"What's your problem, grouchy bottom?" A.J. says to his back as if he is the one who just told her how to spend the day. "You are being such an old stinkweed. Sheesh."

"What's a stinkweed?" Phil asks, scratching his ear. It is his first contribution to the morning conversation. He still looks half asleep. "I'm not familiar."

"Just have a look at one right now," A.J. says, pointing at Seth. "He's been in a bad mood since we got here."

"No, I haven't," Seth says. I want him to turn around so I can read his expression.

"Have too. Hasn't he?" A.J. demands an answer from the rest of us, looking at me specifically. Being friends with A.J. has taught me the art of smoothing over. But sleeping with her fiancé has dulled my instinct. I am not in the mood to chime in. And nobody else wants to become embroiled in what should be their private argument. We all shrug or look away.

In truth, though, Seth has been somewhat subdued. I wonder if I have anything to do with his mood. Maybe it bothered him, watching me with Phil. Not full-blown jealousy, just the territorial pangs that I experienced. Or perhaps he's only thinking about A.J., seeing her for the controlling person she is. I've always been aware of A.J.'s demands- you can't miss them- but lately, I have been less tolerant of her. I am tired of her always getting her way. Maybe Seth feels the same.

"What are we doing for breakfast?" Phil asks through a loud yawn.

Layla glances at her diamond-studded Cartier. "You mean brunch."

"Whatever. For food," Phil says.

We discuss our options and decide to skip the crowded East Hampton scene. Natalya says that she bought the essentials the day before.

"By essentials, do you mean Pop-Tarts?" Phil asks.

"Here," Natalya sets bowls, spoons, and a box of Rice Krispies on the table. "Enjoy."

Phil opens the box and pours some into his bowl. He looks across the table at me. "Want some?"

I nod, and he prepares my bowl. He doesn't ask anyone else if they want cereal, just pushes the box down the table.

"Banana?" he asks me.

"Yes, please."

He peels the banana and slices it into his bowl and mine, alternating every few slices. He takes the bruised section for himself. We are sharing a banana. This means something. Seth's eyes dart my way as Phil flicks the last neat cylinder into my bowl, leaving the nasty end piece in its peel where it belongs.

Several hours later, we're finally ready to go to the beach. Layla and A.J. emerge from their rooms with their stylish canvas bags filled to the brim with plush new beach towels, magazines, lotions, thermoses, cell phones, and makeup. Natalya carries only a small bath towel from the house and a Frisbee. I am somewhere in between with a beach towel, my Discman, and a bottle of water. The six of us walk in a row, our flip flops smacking the pavement with that satisfying sound of summer. Layla and Natalya walk on either end, flanking the house couple and the possible couple-to-be. We cross the beach parking lot and climb over the dune, hesitating for a second to take in our first collective glimpse of the ocean. I am glad that I no longer live in landlocked Indiana, where people call Lake Michigan "the beach". The view is thrilling. It almost makes me forget that I slept with Seth.

Seth leads the way down the crowded beach, finding us a spot halfway between the dunes and the ocean where the sand is still soft but even enough to spread our towels. Phil puts his towel next to mine; A.J. is on my other side, Seth is next to her. Natalya and Layla set up in front of us. The sun is bright but not too hot. Layla warns us all about the UV rays, that these are the days when you really have to be careful. "You can get severe sun damage and not even realize it until it's too late," she says.

Phil offers to put suntan lotion on my back.

"No, thanks," I say. But as I struggle to reach the middle of my back, he takes the bottle from me and applies the lotion, meticulously maneuvering around the edges of my suit.

"Do mine, Seth," A.J. says cheerfully, shredding her white shorts and squatting in front of Seth in her black bikini. "Here, use the coconut oil, please."

Layla bemoans the lack of SPF in the oil, says we are too old to keep tanning and that A.J. will be sorry when the wrinkles set in. A.J. rolls her eyes and says she doesn't care about wrinkles, she lives in the moment. I know I will get an earful later that A.J. will tell me that Layla is just jealous because her fair skin goes straight from white to bright pink. "You'll regret it when you're forty," Layla says, her face shaded by a huge straw hat.

"No I won't. I'll just get laser resurfacing." A.J. adjusts her bikini top and then coats more oil on her claves, using quick, efficient strokes.

I have watched her grease up for more than fifteen years now. Every summer her goal was to have a savage tan. Often we would lie out in her backyard with a big tub of Crisco, a bottle of Sun-In, and a garden hose for periodic relief. It was absolute torture. But I suffered through it believing that dark pigmentation was a virtue of sorts. My skin is pale like Layla's, so everyday A.J. would surge further ahead.

Layla remarks that cosmetic surgery won't cure skin cancer.

"Oh for Pete's sake!" A.J. says. "Stay under your damn hat then!"

Layla opens her mouth and then closes it quickly, looking injured. "Sorry, I was just trying to help."

Seth looks at me and makes a face, as if to say that he wishes both of them would shut up. It is the first direct communication we have had all day. I allow myself to smile back at him. His face breaks into a glorious grin. He is so handsome that it hurts. Like looking at the sun. He stands for a moment to adjust his towel, which has folded over in the wind. I look at his back and then down at his calves, feeling a surge of remembrance. He was in my bed. Not that I want a repeat performance, but oh, he has a nice body-lean but broad. I am not a body person, but I still appreciate a perfect one. He sits back down just as I look away.

Phil asks if anybody wants to play Frisbee. I say no, that I am too tired, but what I am thinking is that the last thing I want to do is run around with my soft, white stomach poking out of my tankini. But Natalya is a taker and off they go, the portrait of two well-adjusted beach-goers leaving the rest of us to our trifling.

"Hand me my shirt," A.J. says to Seth.

"Please?"

"The 'please' is a given," A.J. says.

"Say it," he says, popping a cinnamon Altoid into his mouth.

A.J. hits him hard in the stomach.

"Ouch," he says in a monotone, to indicate that it didn't hurt in the slightest.

She winds up to hit him again, but he grabs her wrist.

"Try to behave. You're such a child," he says fondly. His edginess of this morning is gone.

"I am not," she says, sidling over to his towel. She presses her fingers into his chest, poised for a kiss.

I put on my sunglasses and look away. To say that what I am feeling is not jealousy is a stretch.

That night we all go to a party in Bridgehampton. The house is huge with a beautiful L-shaped pool surrounded by gorgeous landscaping and at least twenty tiki torches. I scan the guests in the backyard, noticing all of the purple, hot pink, and orange dresses and skirts. It seems that every woman read the same "bright colors are in, black is out" article that I read. I followed the advice and bought a lime green sundress that is too vivid and memorable to wear again before August, which means it will cost me about one hundred and fifty dollars per wear. But I am pleased with my choice until I see the same dress, about two sizes smaller, on a slender blonde. She is much taller than I am, so the dress is shorter on her, exposing an endless stretch of bronzed thigh. I make a conscious effort to stay on the opposite side of the pool from her.

I go to the bathroom, and on my way back to find Natalya, I get stuck talking to Alicia Fox and Heath Slater. Alicia used to work at my firm but quit the day after she got engaged to Heath. Heath is unattractive and humorless, but he has a huge trust fund. Hence Alicia's interest. It was amusing to hear Alicia explain to us that Heath has such a "big heart" blah blah blah, trying to vain to disguise her true intentions. I am envious of Alicia's escape from firm hell, but I would rather be stuck billing than married to Heath.

"My life is so much better now," she chirps tonight. "That firm was poison! It was so stifling! I thought I might miss the intellectual stimulation…but I don't. Now I have time to read the classics and think. It's great. So liberating.

"Uh-huh…that's nice," I say, taking mental notes to share with Natalya later.

Alicia goes on to tell me about their penthouse on the park and how she's been working so hard on decorating it and has had to fire three designers for not adhering to her vision. Heath contributes nothing to the conversation, just crunches his ice and looks bored. Once I catch him staring at A.J.'s butt, packed neatly into a pair of tight magenta Capri pants.

Phil is suddenly beside me. I introduce him to Alicia and Heath. Heath shakes his hand and then continues to mouth-breathe and look distracted. Alicia promptly asks Phil where he lives and what he does for a living. Apparently his Murray Hill address and his marketing job don't quite measure up because they find an excuse to move on to more worthy guests.

Phil raises his eyebrows. "Heath, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Dooo heee have a stick up his ass or what?"

I laugh.

He looks proud of his joke, pleased to make me laugh.

"So, are you having fun?"

"I guess so. You?"

He shrugs. "The people here kind of take themselves seriously, don't they?"

"That's the Hamptons."

I survey the party. It is a far cry from neighborhood barbecues back in Indiana. Part of me feels satisfied that I have expanded my horizons. But a larger part of me feels uncomfortable every time I come to a party like this one. I am a poser, attempting to mingle with people who consider Indiana to be mere flyover country-necessary terrain to cross on their trips to Aspen or Los Angeles. I watch A.J. making her rounds with Seth at her side. There is no trace of Indy left in her; to watch her you would guess that she grew up on Park Avenue. Her kids will grow up in Manhattan, for sure. When I have kids, if I ever have kids, I intend to move to the suburbs. I look at Phil, trying to imagine him dragging our son's Big Wheel out of the street. He looks down at our little boy, whose face is streaked with dried Popsicle, and instructs him to stay on the sidewalk. The boy had Phil's short eyebrows pointing up toward each other like an upside-down V.

"C'mon," Phil says. "Let's get another drink."

"All right," I say, keeping my eye on the blonde in my dress.

As we walk toward the poolside bar, I think of Indiana again, picturing Beth and Adam with their neighbors, all spilled out on the freshly cut Midwestern lawn. If somebody wore her some pair of khaki shorts from the Gap, nobody would care.

After the party, we find another party and then do our usual finale at the Talk house, where I dance with Phil again. Around three o'clock, we all pile into the car and go home. Natalya and Layla head straight for bed while the two couples remain in the den. A.J. and Seth holds hands on one love seat; Phil and I sit next to each other, but not touching, on the adjacent couch.

"All right, kids. It's past my bedtime," A.J. says, standing suddenly. She glances at Seth. "You coming?"

My eyes meet Seth's. We look away simultaneously. "Yeah," he says. "I'll be right there."

The three of us talk for a few minutes until we hear A.J. calling Seth from the top of the stairs. "Come one, Seth! They want to be alone!"

Phil smirks while I study a freckle on my arm.

Seth clears his throat, coughs. His face is all business. "Okay then. Guess I'll head up. Good night."

"All right, man. See you tomorrow," Phil says.

I just mumble good night, too uncomfortable to look up as Seth leaves the room.

"Finally," Phil says. "Alone at last."

I feel an unexpected pang for Seth that is somehow reminiscent of Ted leaving Cody and me alone in the lounge at Duke, but I push it away and smile at Phil.

He moves closer and kisses me without asking first this time. It is a nice enough kiss, maybe even nicer than our first one. For some reason, I think of the Brady Bunch episode when Bobby saw skyrockets after kissing Millicent (who, unbeknownst to Bobby, had the mumps). When I first saw that episode I was about Bobby's age, so that kiss seemed like serious stuff. Someday I will see skyrockets like that, I remember thinking. To date, I have not seen skyrockets. But Phil comes just as close as anyone before them.

Our kissing escalates to the next level and then I say, "Well, I think I should go to bed."

"Together?" he asks. I can tell he is joking.

"Very funny," I answer. "Good night, Phil."

I kiss him one more time before going to my room, passing Seth and A.J.'s closed door on the way.

The next morning I check my voice mail. Vince has left me three messages. He might as well be a Jehovah's Witness, for as much attention as he pays to the holidays. He says that he wants "to go over a few things tomorrow, early afternoon." I know he is vague on purpose, not leaving a specific time or instructions to meet him at the office or call in. This way he can be sure that my Memorial Day is slashed in half. Natalya tells me to ignore him, pretend that I didn't get the message. Phil says to jam him with a message back, telling him to "jack off-it's a national holiday." But of course I dutifully check the train and jitney schedule and decide I will leave this afternoon to avoid the traffic. Deep down, I know work is only an excuse to go-I have had enough of this whole bizarre dynamic. I like Phil, but it is exhausting being around a guy who, as Natalya would say, "is potential." And it is even more exhausting avoiding Seth. I avoid him when he is alone; avoid him when he is with A.J. Avoid dwelling on him and the Incident.

"I really need to get back," I sigh, as if it is the last thing I want to do.

"You can't leave!" A.J. says.

"I have to."

As she sulks I want to point out that ninety percent of the time we are in the Hamptons, she is completely distracted, in social-butterfly mode. But I just say again that I have to.

"You're such a buzz kill."

"She can't help having to work, A.J.," Seth says. Maybe he says it because she often calls him a buzz kill too. Then again, maybe he just wants me to leave for the same reasons I want to go.

After lunch I pack up my things and go into the den, where everyone is lazing around, watching television.

"Can someone give me a lift to the jitney?" I ask, expecting A.J., Natalya, or Phil to volunteer.

But Seth reacts first. "I'll take you," he says. "I want to go to the store anyway."

I say good-bye to everyone, and Phil squeezes my shoulder and says he'll give me a call next week.

Then Seth and I are off. Alone for four miles.

"Did you have a nice weekend?" he asks me as we are backing out of the driveway. Gone is any trace of the banter that surfaced right after the Incident. And he, like A.J., has stopped inquiring about Phil, perhaps because it is fairly evident that we have become some kind of item.

"Yeah, it was nice," I say. "Did you?"

"Sure," he says. "Very nice."

After a brief silence, we talk about work and mutual friends form law school, stuff we talked about before the Incident. Things seem normal again, or as normal as they can be after a mistake like ours.

We arrive at the jitney stop early. Seth pulls into the parking lot, turns in his seat, and studies me with his green eyes in a way that makes me look away. He asks what I am doing to Tuesday night.

I think in know what he's asking, but am not sure, so I babble. "Work. The usual. I have a deposition on Friday and haven't even started preparing for it. The only think I have on my outline is 'Can you spell your last name for the court reporter?' and 'Are you on any medications that might impede your ability to answer questions at this deposition?'" I laugh nervously.

His face stays serious. He clearly has no interest in my deposition. "Look, I want to see you, Megan. I'm coming over at eight. On Tuesday."

And the way he say it-as a statement rather than a question-makes my stomach hurt. It isn't really the stomach pain I have before a blind date. It isn't the nervousness before a final exam. It isn't the "I'm going to get busted for doing something" feeling. And it isn't the dizzy sensation that accompanies a crush on a guy when he just acknowledged your presence with a smile or casual hell. It is something else. It is a familiar ache, but I can't quite place it.

My smile fades to match his serious face. I would like to say that his request surprised me, caught me off guard, but I think part of me expected this, even hoped for it, when Seth offered to drive me. I don't say that I have to work or that it's not a good idea. I just nod. "Okay."

I tell myself that the only reason I agree to see him is that we have to finish sorting out what happened between us. And therefore, I am not committing a further wrong against A.J.; I'm simply trying to fix the damage already done. And I tell myself that if I do, in fact, actually want to see Seth for other reasons, it's only because I miss my friend. I think back to my birthday, our time in 7B before we hooked up, remembering how much I enjoyed his solo company, how much I enjoyed Seth removed from A.J.'s demands. I miss his friendship. I only want to talk to him. That is all.

The bus arrives and people start to file onto it. I slide out of the car without another word between us.

As I settle down in a window seat behind a perky blonde talking way too loudly on her cell phone, I suddenly know what it is in my stomach. It is the same way I felt after sex with Wade in those final days before he dumped me for the tree-hugging guitar player. It is a mixture of genuine emotion for another person and fear. Fear of losing something. I know at this moment that by allowing Seth to come over, I am risking something. Risking friendship, and risking my heart.

The girl keeps talking, overusing the words "incredible" and "amazing" to describe her "woefully abbreviated" weekend. She reports that she has a "vicious migraine" from "bingeing big time" at the "fab party." I want to tell her that if she takes her volume down a notch, her headache might subside. I close my eyes, hoping that her phone battery is low. But I know that even if she stops her high pitched chatter, there is no way I am going to be able to sleep with this feeling growing inside me. It is good and bad at the same time, like drinking way too much Starbucks coffee. It is both exciting and scary, like waiting for a wave to crash over your head.

Something is coming, and I am doing nothing to stop it.

It is Tuesday night, twenty minutes before eight. I am home. I have not heard from Seth all day so I assume we are still on. I floss and brush my teeth. I light a candle in the kitchen in case there is a lingering aroma of the Thai food I ordered the evening before my solo Memorial Day dinner. I change out of my suit, put on black lacy underwear-even though I know, know, know that nothing is going to happen-jeans, and a t-shirt. I apply a touch of blush and some lip gloss. I look casual and comfortable, the opposite of how I feel.

At exactly eight, Eddie, who is subbing for Jose, rings my buzzer. "You have company," he bellows.

"Thanks, Eddie. Send him up."

Seconds later Seth appears in my doorway in a dark suit with faint gray pinstripes, a blue shirt, and a red tie.

"Your doorman was smirking at me," he says, as he steps into my apartment and tentatively looks around as if this were his first visit.

"Impossible," I say. "That's in your head."

"It's not in my head. I know a smirk when I see one."

"That's not Jose. Wrong doorman. Eddie's on tonight. You have a guilty conscience."

"I told you already. I don't feel that guilty about what we did." He looks steadily into my eyes.

I feel myself being sucked into his gaze, losing my resolve to be a good person, a good friend. I look away nervously; ask if he wants something to drink. He says a glass of water would be fine. No ice. I am out of bottled water so I run the tap until the water comes out cool. I fill a glass for each of us and join him on my couch.

He takes several big gulps and then puts his glass down on a coaster on my coffee table. I sip from my glass. I can feel him staring at me, but I don't look back. I keep my eyes straight ahead, where my bed is situated-the scene of the Incident. I need to get a proper one bedroom or at least a screen to separate my sleeping alcove from the rest of the apartment.

"Megan," he says. "Look at me."

I glance at him and then down at my coffee table.

He puts his hands on my chin and turns my face towards his.

I feel myself blush but don't move away. "What?" I release a nervous laugh. He doesn't change expression.

"Megan."

"What?"

"We have a problem."

"We do?"

"A major problem."

He leans forward, his left arm draped along the back of the sofa. He kisses me softly and then more urgently. I taste cinnamon. I think of the tin of cinnamon Altoids that he had with him all weekend. I kiss him back.

And if I thought Phil was a good kisser, or Wade before him, or anyone else for that matter, I thought wrong. In comparison, everyone else was merely competent. This kiss is like the kiss I have read about a million times, seen in the movies. The one I wasn't sure existed in real life. I have never felt this way before. Fireworks and all. Just like Bobby Brady and Millicent.

We kiss for a long, long time. Not breaking away once. Not even shifting positions on my couch even though we are at an unnatural distance for such an intense kiss. I can't speak for him, but in know why I don't move. I don't want it to end; don't want the next awkward stage to come, where we might ask the questions about what we are doing. I don't want to talk about A.J., to even hear her name. She has nothing to do with this moment. Nothing. This kiss stands on its own. It is removed from time or circumstance or their September wedding. That is what I try to tell myself. When Seth finally breaks away, it is only to move closer to me and put his arms around me and whisper into my ear. "I can't stop thinking about you."

I can't stop either.

But I can control what I'm doing. There is emotion, and then there is what you do about it. I pull away, but not too far away, and shake my head.

"What?" he asks gently, his arm partially around me.

"We shouldn't be doing this," I say. It is a watered-down protest, but at least it is something.

A.J. can be annoying, controlling, and exasperating, but she is my friend. I am a good friend. A good person. This isn't who I am. I must stop. I won't know myself if I don't stop.

Yet I don't move away. Instead, I wait to be convinced otherwise, hoping he will talk me into it. And sure enough: "Yes. We should," he says. Seth's words are sure. No second guessing, doubts, worry. He holds my face in his hands and stares intently into my eyes. "We have to."

There is nothing slick in his words, only sincerity. He is my friend, the friend I knew and cared for before A.J. ever met him. Why didn't I recognize my feelings sooner? Why had I put A.J.'s interest ahead of my own? Seth leans in and kisses me again, softly but with a sense of absolute certainty.

But it's wrong, I silently protest, knowing that I am too late, that I have already surrendered. We have crossed a new line together. Because even though we have already slept together, that didn't really count. We were drunk, reckless. Nothing really happened until this kiss today. Nothing that couldn't have been stuffed into a closet, confused with a dream, maybe even forgotten altogether.

That is all changed now. For better or worse.


	8. Chapter 8

Eight

I have always done my best thinking in the shower. The night is for worrying, dwelling, analyzing. But in the morning, under the hot water, I see things clearly. So as I lather my hair, inhaling my grapefruit-scented shampoo, I pare everything down to the essential truth: what Seth and I are doing is wrong.

We kissed for a long time last night, and then he held me for even longer. There were few words that passed between us. My heart thumped against his as I told myself that by not escalating the physical part we had scored a victory of sorts. But his morning, I know it was still wrong. Just plain wrong. I must stop. I will stop. Starting now.

When I was little, I used to count to three in my head when I wanted to give myself a fresh start. I'd catch myself biting my nails; jerk my fingers out of my mouth, and count. One. Two. Three. Go. Then I had a clean slate. From that point forward I was no longer a nail biter. I used this tactic with many bad habits. So on a count of three, I will shake the Seth habit. I will be a good friend again. I will erase everything, fix it all.

I count to three slowly and then use the visualization technique that Roman told me he used during baseball season. He said he would picture his bat striking the ball, hear it crack, and see the dust fly as he slid safely into home base. He focused only on his good plays and not the times he screwed up.

So I do this. I focus on my friendship with A.J., rather than my feelings for Seth. I make a video in my head, filling it with scenes of A.J. and me. I see us hunkered down in her bed during an elementary-school sleepover. We are discussing our plans for the future, how many kids we will have, what we will name them. I see A.J., ten years old, propped up on her elbows, pinkies in her mouth, explaining that if you have three kids, the middle one should be a different sex from the others so everyone has something special. As if you can control such things.

I picture us in the halls at Naperville High, passing notes between classes. Her notes, folded in intricate shapes, like origami, were so much more entertaining than Beth's notes, which simple reported how bored she was in class. A.J.'s were chock-full of interesting observations about classmates and snide remarks about teachers. And little games for me to play. She'd put quotes down the left-hand side of the page and people's names on the right for me to match. I'd crack up as I drew a line from, say, "Nice brights, buddy" to Beth's father, who made that comment every time drivers forgot to turn off their high beams. She was funny. Sometimes cutting, even downright mean. But that only made her funnier.

I rinse my hair and remember something else, a memory that has not surfaced before. It is like finding a photograph of yourself that you never knew was taken. A.J. and I were freshman, standing beside our locker after school. Aksana, one of the most popular girls in the senior class (but not the nice kind of popular, more the mean, feared variety) walked by us with her boyfriend, Drew McIntyre. With her virtually nonexistent chin and way-too-thin- lips, she really wasn't pretty at all, although at the time she somehow convinced a lot of people, including me, that she was. So when Drew and Aksana passed us, I looked at them because they were popular seniors, and I was impressed, or at the very least, curious. I'm sure I wanted to hear what they were talking about so that I could glean some insight into being eighteen (so old!) and cool. I think it was only a casual glance in their direction, but maybe it was a stare.

In any case, Aksana gave me an exaggerated stare back, making her eyes pop out like a cartoon. She followed this with a hyenalike, lip-curling sneer and said, "What're you lookin' at?"

Then Drew chimed in with "Catching flies?" (I'm sure dating Aksana made Drew meaner, or maybe he just figured out that being mean earned him action later.)

Sure enough, my mouth was wide open. I snapped it shut, mortified. Aksana laughed, proud to have shamed a freshman, and then she reapplied her pink frosted lipstick, inserted a fresh piece of Big Red into her mean little mouth, and made one final face at me for good measure.

A.J. had been shuffling through books in our locker but clearly caught the gist of the exchange. She spun and eyed the pair with revulsion, a look she had practiced and mastered. She then imitated Aksana's shrill laughter, craning her neck unnaturally backward and rolling in her lips to make them invisible. She was hideous-and looked exactly like Aksana in midchortle.

I stifled a smile while Aksana looked momentarily stunned. She then gathered herself, took a step toward A.J., and spat out the word "bitch".

A.J. was unflinching as she stared right back at the senior duo and said, "It's better than being an ugly bitch. Wouldn't you agree, Drew?"

It was Aksana's turn to stare, mouth agape, at her newly discovered adversary. And before she could formulate a comeback, A.J. threw in another insult for good measure. "And by the way, Aksana, that lipstick you're wearing? It's so last year."

Everything about that moment is suddenly in sharp focus. I can see our locker decorated with pictures of Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. I can smell that distinct, starchy, meat-based odor of the nearby cafeteria. And I can hear A.J.'s voice, forceful and confident. Of course, Drew had no response to A.J.'s question, as it was clear to all four of us that A.J. was right-she was the prettier of the two. And in high school that sometimes gives you the last word, even if you are a freshman. Aksana and Drew scurried off and A.J. just kept talking to me about whatever it was we had been talking about, as if Aksana and Drew were totally insignificant. Which they were. It just took a lot to realize that at fourteen.

I turn off the water, wrap a towel around my body and another over my head. I will call Seth as soon as I get to work. I will tell him that it has to stop. This time I really mean it. He is marrying A.J., and I am the maid of honor. We both love her. Yes, she has her flaws. She can be spoiled, self-centered, and bossy, but she can also be loyal and kind and wildly fun. And she is the closest thing to a sister that I will ever have.

During my commute, I practice what I will say to Seth, even talking out loud at one point on the subway. When I finally arrive at work, I have my speech so memorized that it no longer sounds scripted. I've inserted the proper pauses into my Declaration of Mind-set and Future Intent. I am ready.

Just as I am about to make the phone call, I notice that I have an e-mail from Seth. I open it, expecting him to have reached the same conclusion. The subject line reads "You."

_You are an amazing person, and I don't know where the feelings that _

_You give me come from. What I do know is that I am completely and _

_Utterly into you, and I want time to freeze so I can be with you all the_

_Time and not have to think of anything else at all. I like literally_

_Everything about you, including the way your face shows everything_

_you're thinking and especially the way it looks when we are together_

_and your hair is back and your eyes are closed and your lips are open_

_just a little bit. Okay, that's all I wanted to say. Delete this._

I am breathless, dizzy. Nobody has ever written words like this to me. I read it again, absorbing every word. I like literally everything about you too, I think.

And just like that, my resolve is gone again. How can I end something that I have never experienced before? Something I have been waiting for my whole life? Nobody before Seth could make me feel this way, and what if I never find it again? What if this is it?

My phone rings. I answer it thinking it could be Seth, hoping it's not A.J. I can't talk to her right now. I can't think about her right now. I am buzzing from my electronic love letter.

"Cheers, baby!"

It is Randy, calling from England, where he has lived for the past two years. I am so happy to hear his voice. He has a smiling voice, always sounding like he's on the verge of laughter. Most things about Randy are just as they were in the fifth grade. He is still compassionate, still has cherub cheeks that turn pink in the cold. But the voice is newer. It came in high school-with puberty-long after friendship had replaced my schoolgirl crush.

"Hi, Randy!"

"What's the statute of limitations on wishing someone a happy birthday?" he asks. Ever since I went to law school, he loves throwing out legal terms, often with a twist. "Strawberry tort" is his favorite.

I laugh. "Don't worry about it. It was only my thirtieth."

"Do you hate me? You should have called and reminded me. I fell like an absolute ass, after eighteen years of never forgetting. Shit. My mind is going and I'm still in my twenties-not to rub it in."

"You forgot my twenty-seventh too," I interrupt him.

"I did?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think I did."

"Yeah-you were with Sam-"

"Stop, don't you say that name. You're right. I forgot your twenty-seventh. That makes this infraction somehow less egregious, right? I didn't even break a streak…so how is it?" He whistles. "Can't believe you're thirty. You should still be fourteen. Do you feel older? Wiser? More worldly? What did you do on the big night?" He fires off his questions in his frenetic, attention-deficit-disorder way.

"It's the same. I'm the same." I lie. "Nothing's changed."  
"Really?" he says. It is like him to ask the follow up. It's as if he knows that I'm holding back.

I pause, my mind racing. Do I tell? Not tell? What will he think of me? What will he say? Randy and I have remained close since high school, although our contact is sporadic. But whenever we do talk, we pick up where we left off. He would make a good confidant in this emerging saga. Randy knows all the major players. And more important, he knows what it's like to screw up.

Things started out right for him. He did well on the SATs, graduated as our salutatorian, and was voted most likely to succeed, picked over Michelle McCool, our valedictorian, who was too quiet and mousy to win votes for anything. He went to Stanford, and after graduation took a job at an investment bank even though he majored in art history and had no interest in finance. He instantly despised everything about the banking culture. He said pulling all-nighters was unnatural, and realized that he preferred sleep to money. So he traded his suits in for fleece and spent the next several years drifting up and down the West Coast snapping pictures of lakes and trees, gathering friends along the way. He took writing classes, art classes, photography classes, funded by the odd bartending job and summers in Alaska's fisheries.

That's where he met Samantha-"Sami with an I" as I called her before I realized that he genuinely liked her, and that she wasn't just a fling. A few months into their romance, Sami got pregnant (insisting she was part of that woefully unlucky .05 percent on birth control pills, although I had my doubts.) She said that abortion was out of the question, so Randy did what he thought to be the right thing and married her at City Hall in downtown Seattle. They sent out homemade marriage announcements featuring a black and white photo of the two hiking. A.J. made fun of Sami's way-too-short-and-tight jean shorts. "Who the hell hikes in Daisy Dukes?" she said. But Randy seemed happy enough.

And that summer, Sami gave birth to a baby boy…an adorable, bouncing Eskimo baby boy with eyes that turned coal black almost immediately. Sami, with blue eyes that matched Randy's, begged for forgiveness. Randy promptly had the marriage annulled, and Sami moved back to Alaska, probably to track down her native lover.

I think Sami soured Randy to the whole fresh-air, live-off-the-land kind of life. Or maybe he just wanted something new. Because he moved to London, where he writes for a magazine and is working on a book about London architecture, an interest he didn't acquire until he landed on British soil. But that's how Randy is. He figures things out along the way, always ready to back up and start over, never bowing to pressure or expectations. I wish I could be more like him.

"So what did you do for your birthday?" Randy asks.

I shut my office door and blurt it out. "A.J. had a surprise party for me, I got wasted, and hooked up with Seth."

I suppose this is what happens when you're not accustomed to having secrets. You don't learn the art of holding back. In fact, I am surprised I have lasted this long. I hear static in the line as the news travels across the Atlantic. I panic, wishing I could suck the admission back in.

"Get the fuck outta here. You're kidding me, right?"

My silence tells him that I'm serious.

"Ohhh, Shhhit." His voice is still smiling.

"What? What are you thinking?" I need to know if he's judging. I need to know what he thinks of me, if he is siding with Chanel Suit.

"Wait. Whaddya mean, hooked up? You didn't sleep with him, did you?"

"Um, yeah. Actually I did."

I am relieved to hear him laugh, even though I tell him that it's not funny, that this is serious business.

"Oh, trust me. This is funny."

I picture the dimple in his left cheek. "And what exactly is so amusing?"

"Miss Goody Two-shoes screws her friend's fiancé. This is raw comedy at its best."

"Randy!"

He stops laughing long enough to ask if I could be knocked up.

"No. We had that covered."

"So to speak?"

"Yeah," I say. Any pun I ever make is an accident.

"So no harm done, right? It was a mistake. Shit happens. People make mistakes, especially when they're wasted. Look at me and Sami with an i."

"I guess so. But still…"

Randy whistles and then says the obvious-that A.J. would flip if she ever found out.

My other line rings. "You need to get that?" Randy asks.

"No. I'll let it roll to voice mail."

"You sure? It could be your new boyfriend."

"Ask yourself if you're being helpful," I say, although I'm relieved that he is not preachy and serious. That's not Randy's style, but you never know when someone is going to take the moral high ground. And there is definitely moral high ground all around here, particularly considering that A.J. is a friend of his too. Not as close as he and I are, but they still talk occasionally.

"Sorry. Sorry." He snickers. "Okay. Just one more substantive question."

"What?"

"Was it good?"

"Randy! I don't know. We were drunk!"

"So it was sloppy?"

"C'mon, Randy!" I say, as if I'm not thinking about the particulars. Meanwhile, a snapshot of the Incident flashes through by brain-my fingers pressed into Seth's back. It is a perfect, airbrushed image. There is nothing sloppy about it.

"So you've spoken to him since?"

I tell him about the Hamptons weekend and the date with Phil.

"Nice touch. Going for his friend. That way, if you marry Phil, you guys can be swingers."

I ignore him and continue with the rest-the ride to the jitney, last night, a summary of the e-mail.

"Wow. Shit. So…do you have feelings for him too?"

"I don't know," I say, even though I know that the answer is yes.

"But the wedding is still on?"

"Yeah," I say. "As far as I know."

"As far as you know?"

"Yes, the wedding is still on."

Silence. He is not laughing anymore, so my guilt returns in full force.

"What are you thinking now?"

"I was just wondering where you want this to go," he says. "What do you want from if? Is it a fling, or do you want him to call of the wedding?"

I flinch at the word "fling." That's not what it is at all, but at the same time, I don't think I want Seth to call off the wedding. I can't imagine doing that to A.J. I tell Randy that I don't know, I'm not sure.

"Hmmm…well has he mentioned the engagement at all?"

"No, not really."

"Hmmm."

"What? What does 'hmmm' mean?"

"It means I think he should call the shit off."

"Because of me?" My stomach drops at the thought of being responsible for A.J.'s canceled wedding. "Maybe he just has cold feet?"

I hear my voice rising hopefully at the suggestion of mere cold feet. Why does part of me want it to be that simple? And how can I be so thrilled to be near Seth, so deeply moved by his e-mail, and still want, on some level, for him to marry A.J.?

"Meg-"

"Randy, I know what you're going to say."

I don't know exactly what he is going to say, but I have a hunch from his tone that it has something to do with where things are going to end up if I don't cease and desist. That it's going to blow up somehow. That someone-likely me- is going to get hurt. But I don't want to hear him say any of it.

"Okay. Just be careful. Don't get busted. Shit."

I hear him laughing again.

"What?"

"Just thinking of A.J…it's sort of satisfying."

"Satisfying how?"

"Oh, come on. Don't even tell me that part of you doesn't like zinging her a little bit. There's some poetic justice here. A.J.'s been riding roughshod over you for years.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, genuinely surprised to hear him describe our friendship like that. I know I've been feeling more irritated by her recently and I know that she has not always been the most selfless of friends, but I've never thought of her as riding roughshod over me. "No she hasn't."

"Yeah, she has."

"No. She hasn't," I say more firmly. I'm not sure who I am defending-me or A.J. Yes, there was the matter of you, Randy. But you don't know about that.

"Oh, please. Remember Notre Dame? The SATs?"

I think back to the day we all received our SAT scores, sealed in white envelopes from Guidance. We were all tight-lipped, but dying to know what everyone else got. Finally A.J. just said at lunch, "Okay, who cares. Let's just tell our scores. Megan?"

"Why do I have to go first?" I asked. I was satisfied with my score, but still didn't want to go first.

"Don't be a baby," A.J. said. "Just tell us."

"Fine. Thirteen hundred," I said.

"What was your verbal?" she asked.

I told her 680.

"Nice," she said. "Congratulations."

Randy went next. Fourteen ten. No surprise there. I forget what Beth got-something in the low eleven hundreds.

"Well?" I looked at A.J.

"Oh. Right. I got a thirteen hundred five."

I knew instantly that she didn't have a 1305. The SAT is not scored in increments of five. Randy knew too, because he kicked me under the table and hid a smile with his ham sandwich.

I dint' care that she lied per se. she was known embellisher. But the fact that she lied about her score to beat me by five-that part really figured. We didn't call her on it. There was no point.

But then she said, "Well, maybe we'll both get into Notre Dame."

It was her Randy power move in the fifth grade all over again.

Like a lot of kids in the Midwest, my dream growing up was to attend Notre Dame. We're not Irish, or even Catholic, but ever since my parents took me to a Notre Dame Football game when I was eight. I wanted to go there. To me it was what a college should be-stately stone buildings, manicured lawns, plenty of tradition. I wanted to be a part of it. A.J. never showed the slightest interest in Notre Dame and it irritated me that she was infringing on my terrain. But I wasn't too worried about her taking my spot. My grades were higher, my SATs were probably higher, and besides, more than one student from our high school got into Notre Dame every year.

That spring, the acceptance and rejection letters trickled in slowly. I checked the mailbox every day, in agony. Curtis Axel, who had three generations of alumni in his family and was the president of our class, got into Notre Dame first. I assumed that I would be next, but A.J. got her letter before I did. I was with her when she got the mail, although she wouldn't open the envelope in front of me. I went home, hoping guiltily that she had received bad news.

She called an hour later, ecstatic. "I can't believe it! I got in! Can you believe it?"

In short, no. I couldn't. I mustered up a congratulations, but I was crushed. Her news meant one of two things: she had taken my spot, or we would both go to Notre Dame and she would upstage me for four more years. As much as I knew I would miss A.J. when I went away, I felt strongly that I needed to establish myself apart from her. Once she got in, there would be no perfect resolution.

Still, I wanted that acceptance more than I had ever wanted anything. And I had my pride on the line. I waited, prayed, even thought about calling the admissions office to beg. One sickening week later, my letter arrive. It looked just like A.J.'s. I ran inside, my heart pounding in my ears as I sliced open the envelope, unfolded the paper that held my fate. Close…you are very highly qualified…but no cigar.

I was devastated and could barely speak to my friends in school the next day, especially A.J. At lunch, as I fought back tears, she informed me that she was going to Indiana anyway. That she wanted nothing to do with a school that would turn me down. Her charity upset me all the more. For once, Beth spoke up. "You took Megan's spot, and you didn't even want to go there?"

"Well, it was my first choice. I changed my mind. And how was I supposed to know it would happen like this?" she said. "I assumed she would get in; I only beat her by a few points on the SAT."

Randy had had enough. "You didn't get a damn thirteen hundred five, A.J. The SAT is scored in increments of ten."

"Who said I got a thirteen hundred five?"

"You did," Randy and I said in unison.

"No I didn't. I said a thirteen ten."

"Omigod!" I said, looking at Beth for support, but her gumption had run out. She claimed that she had forgotten what A.J. said.

We argued for the rest of the lunch hour about what A.J. had said and why she had applied to Notre Dame if she didn't want to go there. We both ended up crying, and A.J. left school early, telling the school nurse she had cramps. The whole thing blew over when I got into Duke and talked myself into being happy with that result. Duke had a similar look and feel-stone buildings, pristine campus, and prestige. It was just as good at Notre Dame and maybe it was better to broaden my horizons and leave Indiana.

But to this day I wonder why Notre Dame picked A.J. over me. Maybe a junior male member of the admissions staff fancied her photo. Maybe it was just A.J.'s typical good luck.

In any case, I'm glad that Randy refreshed my memory about Notre Dame. It replaces the Aksana showdown in the forefront of my mind. Yes, A.J. could be a good friend-she usually was-but she also screwed me at a few pivotal moments in life: first love, college dream. Those were no small matters.

"All right," I say to Randy. "But I think you're overstating the point a little. I wouldn't use the term 'roughshod.'"

"Okay, but you know what I mean. There's an undercurrent of competition."

"I guess so. Maybe," I say, thinking that it isn't much of a competition when one person consistently loses.

"So anyway, please keep me posted. This is good stuff."

I tell him I will.

"Oh, one more thing," he says. "When are you going to visit me?"

"Soon."

"That's what you always say."

"I know, but you know how it goes. Work is always crazy…I'll come soon, though. This year for sure."

"Good enough," Randy says. "I really do miss you."

"I miss you too."

"Besides," he says. "You might need a vacation by the time you're through with all of this."

After we hang up, I note with satisfaction that Randy never told me to stop. He only said to be careful. And I will do that. I will be careful the next time I see Seth.


	9. Chapter 9

Nine

I avoid A.J. for three days, a very difficult thing to do. We never go so long without talking. When she finally reaches me, I blame my absence on work, say I have been unbelievably swamped- which is true- although I have found plenty of time to daydream about Seth, call Seth, and e-mail Seth. She asks if I am free for Sunday brunch. I tell her yes, figuring that I might as well just get the face-to-face meeting over with. We arrange to meet at EJ's Luncheonette near my apartment.

On Sunday morning, I arrive at EJ's first and note with relief that the place is full of children. Their happy clamor provides a distraction and makes me slightly less nervous. But I am still filled with anxiety at the thought of spending time with A.J. I have been able to cope with my guilt by avoiding all thoughts of her, almost pretending that Seth is single and we are back in law school, before I ever got the big idea to introduce A.J. to him. But that tactic will not be possible this afternoon. And I'm afraid that spending time with her will force me to end things with Seth, something I desperately don't want to do.

A moment later, A.J. barges in carrying her big black Kate Spade bag, the one she uses for heavy errand-running, specifically the wedding variety. Sure enough, I see her familiar orange folder poking out of the top of the bag, stuffed with tear-outs from bridal magazines. My stomach drops. I had just about prepared myself for A.J. but not for the wedding.

She gives me the two-cheek Euro kiss hello as I smile, try to act natural. She launches into a tale about Layla's blind date from the night before with a surgeon named Skip. She says it did not go well, that Skip wasn't tall enough for Layla and failed to ask if she wanted dessert, thus setting off her cheapskate radar. I am thinking that perhaps the only radar that had gone off was Skip's "tiresome snob" radar. Maybe he just wanted to go home and get away from her. I don't offer this suggestion, however, as A.J. doesn't like it when I criticize Layla unless she does so first.

"She is just way too picky," A.J. says as we are led to our booth. "It's like she looks for things not to like, you know?"

"It's okay to be picky," I say. "But she has a pretty screwed-up set of criteria."

"How do you figure?"

"She can be a little shallow."

A.J. gives me a blank stare.

"I'm just saying she cares too much about money, appearances, and how connected the guy is. She's just narrowing her pool a bit-and her chances of finding someone."

"I don't think she's that picky," A.J. says. "She'd have gone out with Phil and he's not well connected. He's from some dumpy town in Wyoming. And his hair is sort of thinning."

"Chicago," I say, marveling at how superficial A.J. sounds. I guess she's been like this since her arrival to Manhattan, maybe even our whole lives, but sometimes when you know someone well, you don't see them as they really are. So I honestly think I've managed to ignore this fundamental part of her personality, perhaps not wanting to see my closest friend in this light. But ever since my conversation with Randy, her pushy, shallow tendencies seem magnified, impossible to overlook.

"Chicago, Wyoming. Whatever," she says, waving her hand in the air as if she herself doesn't hail from the Midwest. It bothers me the way A.J. downplays our roots, even occasionally bagging on Indiana, calling it backward and ugly.

"And I like his hair," I say.

She smirks. "I see you're defending him. Interesting."

I ignore her.

"Have you heard from him lately?"

"A few times. E-mails mostly."

"Any calls?"

"A few."

"Have you seen him?"

"Not yet."

"Damn, Megan. Don't lose momentum." She removes her gum and wraps it in a napkin. "I mean, don't blow this one. You're not going to do better."

I study my menu and feel anger and indignation swell inside of me. What a rude thing to say! Not that I think there is anything wrong with Phil, but why can't I do better? What is that supposed to mean, anyway? For our entire friendship, it has been silently understood that A.J. is the pretty one, the lucky one, the charmed one. But an implicit understanding is one thing. To say it just like that-you can't do better-is quite another. Her nerve is truly breathtaking. I formulate possible retorts, but then swallow them. She doesn't know how bitchy her remark is; it only springs from her innate thoughtlessness. And besides, I really have no right to be mad at her, considering.

I look up from my menu and glance at A.J., worried that she will be able to see everything on my face. But she is oblivious. My mom always says that I wear my emotions on my sleeve, but unless A.J. wants to borrow the outfit, she doesn't see a thing.

Our waiter comes by and takes our orders without a notepad, something that always impresses me. A.J. asks for dry toast and a cappuccino, and I order a Greek omelet, substituting cheddar cheese for feta, and fries. Let her be the thin one.

A.J. whips out her orange folder and starts to tick through various lists. "Okay, we have so much more to do than I thought. My mom called last night and was all 'Have you done this? Have you done that?' and I started freaking out."

I tell her that we have plenty of time. I am wishing we had more.

"It's, like, three months away, Meg. It's going to be here before we know it."

My stomach drops as I wonder how many more times I will see Seth in the three months. At what point will we stop? It should be sooner rather than later. It should be now.

I watch A.J. as she continues to go through her folder, making little notes in the margins until the waiter brings our food. I check the inside of my omelet-cheddar cheese. He got it right. I begin to eat as A.J. yaps about her tiara.

I nod, only half listening, still feeling stung by her rude words.

"Are you listening to me?" she finally asks.

"Yes."

"Well then, what did I just say?"

"You said you had no idea where to find a tiara."

She takes a bite of toast, still looking doubtful. "Okay, so did hear me."

"Told ya," I say, shaking salt onto my fries.

"Do you know where to get one?"

"Well, we saw some at Vera Wang, in that glass case on the first floor, didn't we? And I'm pretty sure Bergdorf has them."

I think back to the early days of A.J's engagement, when my heart had been at least somewhat in it. Although I was envious that her life was coming together so neatly, I was genuinely happy for her and was a diligent maid of honor. I recall our long search for her gown. We must have seen every dress in New York. We made the trek to Kleinfeld in Brooklyn. We did the department stores and the little boutiques in the Village. We hit the big designers on Madison Avenue-Vera Wang, Carolina Herrera, Yumi Katsura, Amsale.

But A.J. never got that feeling that you're supposed to get, that feeling where you are overcome with emotion and start weeping all over the dressing room. I finally targeted the problem. It was the same problem that A.J. has trying on bathing suits. She looked stunning in everything. The body-hugging sheaths showed off her slender hips and height. The big princess ball gowns emphasized her minuscule waist. The more dresses she tried on, the more confused we became. So finally, at the end of one long, weary Saturday, when we arrived at our last appointment, at Wearkstatt in Soho, I decided that this would be our final stop. The fresh-faced girl, who was not yet jaded by life and love, asked A.J. what she envisioned for her special day. A.J. shrugged helplessly and looked at me to answer.

"She's having a city wedding," I started.

"I just love Manhattan weddings."

"Right and it's in early September. So we're counting on warm weather…and I think A.J. prefers simple gowns without too many frills."

"But not too boring," A.J. chimed in.

"Right. Nothing too plain-Jane," I said. God forbid.

The girl pressed a finger to her temple, scurried off, and returned with four virtually indistinguishable A-lines. And that's when I made a decision that I was going to pick one of the dresses to be the one. When A.J. tried on the second dress, a silk satin A-line in soft white with a dropped waist and beading on the bodice, I gasped. "Oh, A.J. It's gorgeous on you," I said. (It was, of course.) "This is it!"

"Do you think?" Her voice quivered. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," I said. "You need to buy this one."

Moments later, we were placing an order for the dress, talking about fittings. A.J. and I had been friends forever, but I think it was the first time that I realized the influence I have over her. I picked her wedding dress, the most important garment that she will ever wear.

"So you won't mind running some errands with me today?" she asks me now. "The only thing I really want to accomplish is shoes. I need my shoes for the next fitting. I figure we'll look at Stuart Weitzman and then zip up to Barney's. You can come with me, can't you?"

I plow a forkful of my omelet through ketchup. "Sure…but I do have to go in to work today," I lie.

"You always have to work! I don't know who has it worse- you or Seth," she says. "He's been working on this big project lately. He's never home."

I keep my eyes down, searching my plate for the best remaining fry. "Really?" I say, thinking of the recent nights Seth and I have stayed at work late, talking on the phone. "That sucks."

"Tell me about it. He's never available to help with this wedding. It's really starting to piss me off."

After lunch and a lot more wedding conversation, we walk over to Madison, turning left toward Stuart Weitzman. As we enter the store, A.J. admires a dozen sandals, telling me that the cut of the shoes is perfect for her narrow, small-heeled feet. We finally make our way to the satin wedding shoes in the back. She scrutinizes each one, choosing four pairs to try on. I watch as she prances around the store, runway style, before settling on the pair with the highest heels. I almost ask her if she is sure they are comfortable, but stop myself. The sooner she makes a decision, the sooner I will be dismissed for the day.

But A.J. isn't finished with me. "While we're over here, can we go to Elizabeth Arden to look at lipsticks?" she asks as she pays for her shoes.

I reluctantly agree. We walk over to Fifth, while I tolerate her yammering about waterproof mascara and how I have to remind her to buy some for the wedding day because there was no way that she was going to make it through the ceremony without crying.

"Sure," I say. "I'll remind you."

I tell myself to view these tasks with an objective eye, as detached as a wedding coordinator who barely knows the bride, rather than the bride's oldest but most disloyal friend. After all, if I am especially helpful to A.J., it might diminish my guilt. I imagine A.J. discovering my misdeeds and me saying, "Yes, all of that is true. You got me. But may I remind you that I NEVER ONCE ABANDONED MY MAID OF HONOR DUTIES!"

"May I help you, ladies?" the woman behind the counter at Elizabeth Arden asks us.

"Yes, we are looking for a pink lipstick. A vivid yet soft and innocent bridal pink," A.J. says.

"And you are the bride?"

"I am. Yes." A.J. flashes one of her fake PR smiles.

The woman beams back and makes her decisive recommendations, swiftly pulling out five tubes and setting them on the counter in front of us. "Here are you. Perfect."

A.J. tells her that I will need a complementary shade, that I am the maid of honor.

"How nice. Sisters?" The woman smiles. Her big square teeth remind me of Chiclets.

"No," I say.

"But she's like my sister," A.J. says, simply and sincerely.

I feel low. I picture myself on Ricki Lake, the title of the show "My Best Friend Tried to Steal My Groom." The audience boos and hisses as I babble my apologies and excuses. I explain that I didn't mean to cause any harm, I just couldn't help myself. I used to wonder how they found people who had committed such acts of despicable disloyalty (never mind how they got these people to fess up on national television). Now I was joining the low-life ranks. Giving Sami a run for her money.

This has to stop. Right now. Right at this second. I haven't yet slept with Seth consciously, soberly. So we kissed again? It was only a kiss. The turning point will be the selection of the bridal lipstick. Right now. One, two three, go!

Then I think of Seth's soft hair and cinnamon lips and his words- I like literally everything about you. I still can't believe that Seth has those feelings for me. And the fact that I feel the same way about him is too much to ignore. Maybe it is meant to be. Words like "fate" and "soul mates" swirl around in my head; words that made me scoff in my twenties. I note the irony- aren't you supposed to get more cynical with age?

"You like this one?" A.J. turns to me with her full lips in a pout.

"It's nice," I say.

"Is it too bright?"

"I don't think so. No, it's pretty."

"I think it may be too bright. Remember, I'm going to be in white. It'll make a difference. Remember Kim Frisby's wedding makeup, how she looked like a total tart? I want to look hot, but sweet too. You know, like a virgin. But still hot."

I am suddenly and unexpectedly on the verge of tears-I just can't stand the wedding talk another second. "A.J., I really have to get to work. I'm truly sorry."

Her lower lip protrudes. "C'mon, just a little longer. I can't do this without you!" And then she says to our salesgirl, "No offense to you."

The girl smiles as if she totally understands, no offense taken. She recognizes the truth of what A.J. is saying and is probably wondering what kind of maid of honor leaves the bride during such a pivotal moment.

I take a deep breath and tell her that I can stay a few more minutes. She samples more tubes, wiping her lips with a makeup-removing lotion between hues of pink.

"How about this one?"

"Nice." I smile earnestly.

"Well, nice doesn't cut it!" she snaps. "It has to be perfect. I have to look perfect!"

As I study her pouty, berry-stained, bee-stung lips, any trace of remorse is gone. All I feel is solid, full-blown resentment.

_Why does everything have to be perfect for you? Why does it all have to be handed to you in a perfect package all wrapped up with a Martha Stewart bow? What did you do to deserve Seth? I met him first. I introduced him to you. I should have gone for him. Why didn't I, again? Oh, right, because I thought I wasn't good enough for him. Well, I was mistaken. I obviously misjudged the situation. It can happen…especially when one has a friend like you, a friend who assumes that she has a right to the best of everything, a friend who is so relentless in her quest to outshine you that you even begin to underestimate yourself, set your sights low. This is your fault, A.J., for taking what should have been mine in the first place._

I am keyed up and absolutely desperate to get away from her. I look at my watch and sigh, almost believing that I really do have to go to work and that A.J. is being inconsiderate, as usual, taking advantage of my time. I think my job is a little more important than your lipstick for an event that is still a month away!

"I'm sorry. A.J.-it's not my fault that I have to work."

"Fine."

"It's not my fault," I say again.

Not my fault.

My feelings for Seth are not my fault.

And his feelings for me-and I know they are real-are not his fault.

Before I can escape, A.J. calls Layla on her cell. Has she tried Bobbi Brown? I can hear Layla inquire, and then state with the authority of Bride's magazine that they have a beautiful bridal line and their lipstick has plenty of moisture but not too much shine.

"Will you come to meet me now?" A.J. pleads into her phone. Her sense of entitlement knows no bounds.

She hangs up the phone and tells me that I am free to go, that Layla will be straight over. She waves at me; I am being dismissed.

"Good-bye," I say. "I'll speak to you later?"

"Sure. Whatever. Bye."

As I turn to leave, she issues a final warning. "If you're not careful, I'm going to have to demote you to lowly bridesmaid and give Layla your honored position."

So much for just like sisters.

I call Seth's cell phone the second I am out of sight. It is a low move, making the call while A.J. does wedding errands, but I am running off the steam of indignation. That's what she gets for being so demanding, domineering, and self-centered.

"Where are you?" I ask Seth after we exchange hellos.

"Home."

"Oh."

"Where are you? I thought you were shopping."

"I was. But I said I had to work."

I notice that we are both dancing around any direct mention of A.J.

"Well, do you have to work?" he asks tentatively.

"Not really."

"Good. Me either. Can I see you?"

"I'll be home in twenty minutes."

Seth beats me to my apartment and is waiting in my lobby making small talk with Jose about the Cubs. I am so happy to see him, relieved to be away from A.J. I smile and say hello, wondering if Jose recognizes Seth from past visits with A.J. I hope he doesn't. It's not just my parents from whom I want approval. I even want it from my doorman.

Seth and I ride the elevator and walk down the hall to my apartment. I am jittery with anticipation, eager for his touch. We sit on my couch. He takes my hands and we start kissing with an urgency that feels like an affair. It is a serious word-a scary word. It conjures images of Sunday school and the Ten Commandments. But it is not adultery. Nobody is married. Yet. I push it all out of my mind as I kiss Seth. There will be no more guilt, not for this next parcel of time.

Suddenly, perching on the couch seems ridiculous. My bed would be so much more comfortable. Nothing more has to happen just because we're on a bed. That is a teenager's perception. I am a grown woman with life experience (albeit limited), and I can control myself on my own bed. I stand up and lead him over to the other side of my studio. He follows me, still holding my hand. We sit on the foot of the bed. Seth slips his feet out of his loafers. He is not wearing socks. He moves his big toes up and down and then rubs his feet together. He has high, graceful arches and slender ankles.

"Come here," he says, pulling me against him and both of us up toward my pillows. He is strong, his skin is warm. We are now on our sides, our bodies against each other. He kisses me more, and we topple over in his direction. He stops kissing me suddenly, clears his throat, and says, "It's so strange. Being with you like this. And yet it also feels so natural; maybe because we've been friends for so long."

I tell him I know exactly what he means. I think back to law school. We weren't best friends in those days, but we were close enough to learn a lot about each other, stuff that comes out even when your focus is on contributory negligence and ways to rescind a contract. I mentally catalog all that I learned about Seth in the pre-A.J. days. That he grew up in Westchester. That he is Catholic. That he played basketball in high school and considered walking on at Georgetown. That he has an older sister named Tessa who went to Cornell and now teaches high school English in Buffalo. I learned that his parents divorced when he was very young, and that his father remarried, and that his mother beat cancer.

And then there was all that I learned via A.J., details of his personal life that I've found myself conjuring and pondering in recent days. Like that Seth is grouchy in the morning. That he does at least fifty push-ups before bed every single night and that he never leaves dirty dishes on the counter. That he broke down when his grandfather died, the only time she has ever seen him cry. That he had two serious girlfriends before A.J. and that the one named Tamina, who worked as a research analyst at Goldman Sachs, dumped him and broke his heart.

When I add it all up, I know a lot. But I want more. "Tell me everything about you," I say, sounding eighteen.

Seth touches my face and then draws an imaginary line along my nose and around my mouth, resting his finger on my chin. "You first. You're the mysterious one."

I laugh. "Hardly," I say, thinking that he is confusing being shy with being mysterious.

"You are. You were a closed book in law school. All quiet, not wanting to date anyone-despite plenty of guys trying…I could never get much out of you."

I laugh again. "What's that supposed to mean? I told you plenty in law school."

"Like what?"

I rattle off some autobiographical details.

"I'm not talking about stuff like that," he says. "I'm talking about the important things. How you feel about things."

"I hated Zigman," I offer weakly.

"I know. Your fear was all-consuming. And then you did a great job when he finally called on you."

"I did not," I say, remembering how I stumbled my way through a long, painful line of questioning.

"Yes you did. You just didn't think you did. You don't see yourself the way you are."

I avert my eyes, and focus on a spot of ink on my comforter.

He continues. "You see yourself as very average, ordinary. And there is nothing ordinary about you, Megan."

I can't look back at him. My face burns.

"And I know that you blush when you're embarrassed." He smiles.

"No I don't!" I cover my face with one hand and roll my eyes.

"Yes you do. You're adorable. And yet you have no idea, which is the most adorable part."

Nobody, not even my mother, has ever called me adorable.

"And you are beautiful; absolutely, stunningly beautiful in the freshest, and most natural way. You look like one of those Ivory girls. Remember those commercials? You're probably too young. You're like a J. Crew model. All natural."

I tell him to please stop. Even though I love what he has just told me.

"It's true."

I want to believe him.

He kisses my neck, his left hand resting on my hip.

"Seth."

"Hmmm?"

"Who ever said I didn't want to date in law school?"

"Well, you didn't, did you? You were there to learn, not date. That was clear."

"I went out with Wade."

"Not until the very end."

"He didn't ask me out until the very end."

"Brave guy."

I roll my eyes.

"I almost asked you out, you know that?"

I laugh at this.

"It's true," he says, sounding a little bit hurt.

I give him a dubious look.

"Do you remember that time when we were studying for our Torts final?"

I picture his thumb on my face, wiping away my tear. So it had meant something.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you?"

My face feels hot as I nod. "I think so. Yeah."

"And when I asked to walk you home, you said no. Shot me down."

"I didn't shoot you down!"

"You were all business."

"I was not. I just didn't think at the time…" My voice trails off.

"Yeah, and then you introduced me to A.J. and I knew then that you had zero interest."

"I just didn't think…I didn't know you saw me that way."

"I loved spending time with you," Seth says. "Still do." He stares at me, unblinking.

I tell him that he blinks less than anyone I have ever met. He smiles, says he has never lost a staring contest. I challenge him, making my eyes as wide as his. I notice that he has a dark speck on his left iris, like an eye freckle.

Seconds later, I blink. He flashes a quick, jubilant smile and then kisses me more. He changes the intensity and pressure and amount of tongue, the kissing ideals that are all too often abandoned once in a long-term relationship. Kissing Seth would never become stale. He would never stop kissing me like this.

"Tell me about Tamina," I say when we finally separate. "And your high school girlfriend."

"Alice?" He laughs, sweeps a piece of my hair behind my ear. "What about her? Ancient history."

Everyone knows that you don't discuss exes when you're in a fledgling relationship. Even though you are dying to know those details from the very beginning, that is something you bring up much later in the game. You don't have to be a Rules Girl like Layla to have that concept down. Dating someone new is a fresh start for both of you. No good can come from rehashing past-and by definition failed-relationships. But compared to the fact that he is engaged, ex-girlfriends are an innocuous topic. There is no need to strategize her in my safe studio. The rules don't apply. It might be the only advantage to our situation.

"Were you in love with them?" For some reason I need to know.

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, concentrating. I like that he thinks about my question, just as he did during law-school exams. I remember him staring into space for the first forty-five minutes of an exam. Not writing a word on his blue book until he thought through his entire answer.

He clears his throat. "Not with Alice, but yes with Tamina."

No wonder Tamina has always bothered A.J. so much. She wants to be the only one he has ever loved. I remember how she used to beat down Roman in high school: "You didn't love Kelly Kelly, did you? Did you?" Until he finally just said no. Only you, A.J.

"Why not with Alice?" I ask. I'd rather hear about the one he didn't love first.

"I don't know. She was a sweet girl. As sweet as they come, but I don't know why I didn't love her. It's something you can't really control."

Seth is right. It has nothing to do with the other person's inherent worth, the sum of their fine attributes. It is something you can't will yourself to feel. Or not feel. Although I have done a pretty good job of it over the years. Just look at Cody. I dated him for two years and never felt even a fraction of what I'm feeling now.

"Of course, it was just high school," he continues. "How serious can you really be at that age?"

I nod, thinking of sweet little Roman then I ask Seth about Tamina. "So you loved her?"

"Yeah, but that wasn't going to work in the long run. She's Samoan and her family was very up-front about their expectations of me. They didn't like the fact that I wasn't Samoan, the whole nine yards. I wasn't okay with the fact that they made it a bright-line rule. I saw a life of her browbeating me into shit. Just like her mother does to her father. Besides, we were too young to commit…it still killed me when she walked, though."

"Is she married now?"

"Funny you ask that. I actually just heard from a mutual friend that she got engaged about a month after-" he stops, looking uncomfortable.

"After you did?"

"Yeah," he whispers. He pulls me against him and kisses me hard, erasing my thoughts of A.J. We undress and slide under the covers.

"You're cold," he says.

"I'm always cold when I'm nervous."

"Why are you nervous? Don't be nervous."

"Seth," I say into his neck.

"Yeah, Meg?"

"Nothing."

His body covers mine. I am not cold anymore.

We kiss for a long time, touching everywhere.

I don't know the time, but it is just getting dark.

I almost stop him, for all of the obvious reasons. But also because I'm thinking we should wait until we can spend a night together. Then again, that might never happen. And likely I will never shower with him, watch him shave in the morning. Or read the Sunday Times over coffee, whiling away the hours. We'll never hold hands in Central Park or cuddle on a blanket in Sheep's Meadow. But I can have him now. Nothing is stopping us from this moment.

I can see just a fraction of Seth as we move together-his sideburn with a trace of blonde, his strong shoulder, his seashell or an ear. My fingertips graze his collarbone, and then hold on more tightly.


	10. Chapter 10

Ten

I can't stop thinking about Seth. I knew that we won't end up together, that he will marry A.J. in September. But I am content to live in the moment, and allow myself the daily pleasure of obsessing. Nothing lasts forever, I tell myself. Especially the good stuff; although typically you aren't faced with a hard deadline. I think of a few other examples of concrete, predetermined endings. Take college for example. I knew that I would go away for four years, accumulate friends and memories and knowledge, and that it would collect my diploma and pile my belongings into a U-Haul bound for Indiana and the Duke experience would be done. A chapter closed forever, but that awareness didn't stop me from enjoying myself, sucking all of the joy out of the deal.

So that is what I am doing with Seth. I am not going to dwell on the end at the expense of the here and now.

Tonight I am home when Seth phones from work to say a quick hello and tell me that he misses me. It is the sort of call a boyfriend makes to his girlfriend. Nothing covert or complicated about it, and I pretend that we are together for real. The phone rings again a second after we hang up.

"Hey," I say, in the same hushed tone, thinking that it is only a follow-up call from Seth.

"What's that voice?" A.J. asks, yanking me back to reality.

"What voice?" I ask. "I'm just tired. What's going on?"

She launches into the details of her latest work crisis, which typically amounts to no more than a paper jam at the copier, and this one is no exception. It was a typo on a flyer for a club opening. I resist the urge to tell her that the target audience won't notice misspelling and instead ask her who is going to the Hamptons this weekend. I feel my senses heighten, anticipating Seth's name. He already told me that he was going, convincing me that I had to go too. It will be awkward, but worth it, he said. He has to see me.

"Not sure. Layla might be having friends in town. Seth is in."

"Oh, really? He doesn't have to work?" I ask, sounding a bit too surprised. I feel a stab of worry, but A.J. doesn't notice my false tone.

"No, he just finished with some big deal," she says.

"Which deal?"

"I don't know. Some deal."

Seth's job bores A.J. I have observed the say she can shut him down, interrupting him in the middle of a story, transitioning back to her own petty concerns. _Am I fat? Does this look good on me? Will you come there with me? Do that for me. Reassure me. Me. Me. Me._

As if on cue, she tells me that she is considering sending in a tape to Big Brother, that it would be fun to be on the show; fun for an exhibitionist. I can think of few things more horrifying than being on national television, out there for the world to judge, assess, and tear apart.

"Do you think I'd get picked?" she asks.

"You'd have a good chance."

She is pretty enough to get picked, and she has a vivid personality-exactly what they look for on reality television. I study my own face in the mirror, think of Seth telling me that I look like a J. Crew model. Maybe I am attractive. But I am nowhere near as pretty as A.J., with her precise features, incredible cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips.

Now she is laughing loudly on the phone, telling me another story about her day. She hurts my ears. The word "strident" comes to mind, and as I study my reflection again, I decide that although I'm far from beautiful, perhaps I have a softness that she lacks.

It is Thursday, the day before we leave for the Hamptons. Seth is over. We had planned on waiting until next week to see each other alone, but we both finished work early, and well, here we are, together again. We have already made love once. Now I am resting my head on his chest. As he breathes, his chest lifts my face slightly. Neither of us speaks for a long time, and then he asks suddenly, "What are we doing?"

There it is. The question.

I have thought of it a hundred times, worded the inquiry exactly like that, with the same intonation, the same emphasis on the word "doing." But every time I answer it differently.

We are following our hearts.

We are taking a chance.

We are crazy.

We are self-destructive.

We are lustful.

We are confused.

We are rebelling.

He is afraid of marriage.

I am afraid of being alone.

We are falling in love.

We are already in love.

And the most common: we have no idea.

This is the one I offer up. "I don't know."

"Neither do I," he says softly. "Should we talk about it?"

"Do you want to?"

"Not really," he says.

I am relieved that he doesn't. Because I don't. I am too afraid of what we might decide. Either choice is scary. "Let's not, then. Not now."

"Then when?" he asks.

For some reason, I say, "After July Fourth."

It sounds arbitrary, but it has always been a benchmark of sorts, the summer midpoint. Even though more than half the summer is left after the Fourth of July, the part that follows is the faster half, the part that always flies by. June, although a day shorter, feels so much longer than August.

"Okay," he says.

"No examining anything until July Fourth." I state the rule clearly, as I would at the outset of a law-school exam. My voice is firm, even though I'm not sure what we've just decided. That we are finished as of July Fourth? Or maybe…no, he couldn't think that I meant that is when he would tell A.J. he can't go through with marrying her. No, that is not what we just decided. We simply decided to decide nothing. That is all.

Still, picking the date scares me. I picture a giant countdown of days, hours, minutes, and seconds; like the clocks set up in 1999 for the countdown to the new millennium. I remember watching the seconds roll off such a clock in the post office near Grand Central Station sometime in December. That clock made me nervous and frantic. I wanted to attack my to-do list, clear my desk of backed-up calls, and finish it all immediately. At the same time, watching those numbers tick by paralyzed me. I had too much to do, so why do anything at all?

I try to calculate the number of hours left before July Fourth. How many nights we will have together? How many times we will make love?

My stomach growls. Or maybe it's his. I can't tell because I am flat against him. "Are you hungry? We can order food," I say, and kiss his chest. "Or I can make us something."

I imagine myself whipping up a tasty snack. I can't cook, but I would learn. I would make an excellent, nurturing wife.

He tells me that he doesn't want to waste time eating. He can get something on his way home. Or just go to bed hungry. He says he wants to feel me against him until it's time to leave.

The next day I ask Seth if there were any problems when he returned home. It is a vague question, but he knows what I am asking. He says that A.J. was not home when he got in, so he had time to shower, reluctantly wash me off him. He says that A.J. had left him a message: "It's eleven and you're not answering your cell or your phone at work. You're probably having an affair. I'm going out with Layla."

It is her usual tongue-in-cheek accusation when Seth works late. She asks him if he's having an affair, never believing that he would do such a thing. She changes the person every time, selecting a random female name from his office. The less attractive the woman, the more amused she is. "I know you're in love with Emma," she'll say, knowing that Emma is a nerdy word processor from Staten Island with fake nails adorned with glitter art.

I think of Seth returning home last night. A whole scene unfurls in my mind-Seth stealing into his apartment, hurrying to shower and get in bed, waiting for the key to turn in the lock, pretending to be asleep when A.J. enters the room. She hovers over him, studying him in the dark.

"How was your date with Emma?" she asks in a wry, loud voice.

He wipes his eyes with his fists as people do on television when they're awakened from a sound sleep. "Hi," he says wearily and then pretends to fall back asleep.

She cuddles up to him in bed, tossing out an "I love you."

His jaw clenches, but he says it back. What choice does he have? He falls asleep thinking about me, and thinking that her chin is too sharp against his chest.

I am watching them on the beach, down by the water.

A.J. and Seth are standing together in the not-too-hot June sun. This weekend is the first that I have seen them together since Seth and I soberly, willfully, made love. I am wearing dark sunglasses so I can study them from my towel without being obvious, while Layla babbles to me about-what else?-the wedding. What if they night is chilly? Should we buy matching wraps, a light, gauzy cardigan? I nod and murmur that it is a good idea.

Seth has just finished a quick swim, even though the water is freezing. Now they are talking, huddled close together. Perhaps he is giving her the report on the water temperature. She hesitantly steps closer to the ocean's reach, just enough to let the water coat her feet. They are both smiling, Seth kicks water onto her shins and she shrieks, turns and scampers a few feet from him. I can see the muscles strain in her long, tanned legs. She is wearing the nude-colored bikini. Her hair is down, blowing around her face. He laughs, and she raises her index finger as if to scold him and then walks toward him again. They are engaged in a full-fledged frolic. It pains me to watch them, but I can't stop. I can't look away.

I feel as if they are putting on a show. Well, A.J. is anyways putting on a show. But Seth is a willing participant. Surely he knows we are all watching. That I am watching. It is always that way when you are in a group and someone decides to go for a swim or walk to the water. The ocean is like a giant stage. It is natural that the others watch if only for a moment. Seth must be aware of this, yet he is still in full-throttle playful-couple mode. He should be brooding on his towel, napping, or reading a novel-something dark, to give me the impression that he is confused, upset, and or torn. But instead he is splashing A.J and grinning.

Phil cups his mouth with his hands, yells down at them: "How cold is it?"

"Freaking freezing!" A.J. announces, her hand stroking Seth's back while he reports a manly "Nah, it feels good. Come on down!"

Rage commingles with hurt. For the first time, I completely regret having sex with Seth. I feel foolish, suddenly sure that it meant next to nothing to him. Tears sting my eyes as I force myself to turn away from them, slip on my headphones, and I order myself not to cry.

Before I hit play, Phil asks me what I'm listening to. I have only seen him once since our date and that was just for a quick weekday lunch at a deli near my office, but we have talked several times, and one conversation lasted over an hour. The only apparent reason why date number two has not happened, at least as far as he knows, is mere circumstance. He's buys, I'm busy. Work has been crazy and that whole routine. So the door is still wide open, which I am very glad about. I need to focus more on him. Feelings for him might emerge once I put Seth behind me. I smile and say, "30 Seconds to Mars. It's a good CD. Do you want to listen?"

I hand him my headphones as Seth and A.J. walk toward us. Phil listens for a few seconds. "That's nice." He gives my headphones back to me and fishes a Pepsi out of our cooler. "Want a sip?" he asks just as A.J and Seth are standing over us.

I tell him sure, take the can, and wipe the lid with the edge of my towel after I swallow.

He says with a knowing, goofy look, "I don't mind your germs. If you catch my drift."

I laugh and shake my head, as if to say, Phil, you crazy nut, you.

Phil winks and I laugh again.

It was perfect timing. Seth catches the whole exchange, but I do not look at him. I will not. "Is anybody else getting in?" he asks.

Layla gives him the standard response. "Not yet, I'm not hot enough."

Phil says he hates to swim, particularly in freezing water. "Please make me see how that is fun."

A.J. giggles. "It's not fun, it's torture!"

I say nothing, and hit the play button on my Discman.

"What about you, Megan?" Seth asks, still hovering over me.

He and A.J. return to their towels on the other side of Layla. A.J. brushes sand from her feet and ankles, while Seth sits cross-legged, looking at the ocean. I can see his shoulder and back out of the corner of my eye. I try not to think about his smooth skin and how he feels against me. I won't be feeling it again. I tell myself it's not the end of the world. It is what is for the best.

Before dinner that night, as I am dressing, A.J. comes to my room to ask me if I brought an eyelash curler. I tell her no, that I don't own an eyelash curler. Maybe Natalya does, but she is showering. She sits on my bed and sighs, her features rearranging in a dreamy expression.

"I just had the best sex," she says.

I struggle to keep my composure. "Oh, really?" I know I am opening the door for more sharing, but I don't know what else to say. My face is on fire. I hope that A.J. won't notice.

"Yeah, it was phenomenal. Did you hear us?" It is like A.J. to share such details. She has always been explicit in her sexual reports. She will tell you what words were exchanged at the moment of orgasm. I have always listened, usually laughed, and occasionally even enjoyed her stories. But those days are long over.

"No, I must have been in the shower," I say.

"Yeah, we were in the shower too." She finger-combs her wet hair, then shakes her head from side to side. "Wow, we haven't had sex like that in months."

I think of their wet bodies pressed together and can't decide who I hate more.

It is late, after two a.m. I have avoided Seth all night, at the house and then at dinner. Now we are at the Talkhouse. I have just ordered two beers, one for me and one for Natalya, when Seth finds me at the bar.

"Hi, Meg," he says.

I am buzzed and brazen. The alcohol has dried up my hurt, leaving only resentment and anger. They are easier emotions to manage, more straightforward. "Yes?"

"What's going on?" he asks casually.

"Nothing," I snap, turning to leave.

"Wait a sec. Where are you going?"

"To take Nattie her beer."

"I want to talk to you."

"What about?" I make my voice icy.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I say, wishing I could think of something pointed and vengeful. I have not had much practice being mean, but my tone of voice must do the trick because Seth looks hurt. Not as hurt as I was today on the beach or during A.J.'s sex report. Not hurt enough. I raise my eyebrows, looking at him with a slight look of disgust, as if to say, yes? Is there something I can do for you?

"Are you-are you made at me?" he asks.

I laugh-no, it is more of a snort.

"Are you?" he asks again.

"No, Seth, I'm not mad at you," I say. "I really am not concerned with you at all. Or what you do with A.J."

Now he knows that I know. "Megan…" he starts, flustered. Then he tries to tell me it was her doing, that she initiated it.

"She said it was the best sex of her life," I say as I walk away, leaving him standing alone at the bar. "Good job. Congrats."

Even in the fog of my buzz, I know that I have no right to confront Seth like this. All he did was have sex with his fiancée. He has promised me nothing-we were not supposed to even discuss anything until the Fourth of July. No material misrepresentation has been made. In fact, no misrepresentation has been made at all, material or otherwise. I am in this situation of my own accord, have not been duped. But I still hate him.

I scan the crowd, trying to find Natalya. Seth follows me and grabs my arm right elbow. I drop one of the beers and the bottle shatters.

"Nice, look what you did," I say, looking down at the mess.

"I'll get you another one."

"Don't bother."

"Megan, please…I couldn't help that. It was A.J., I swear."

Natalya suddenly appears beside us. "What's up?"

I am not sure if she heard any of our conversation.

"Nothing," Seth answers quickly. "Megan's just mad at me for dropping her beer."

"You can have mine," Natalya says.

"No, take this one," I say, handing her the other beer.

She reluctantly takes it and asks where A.J. is.

"We were just looking for her," I say.

I glance at Seth. He is trying to cover up in front of Natalya, but he is not doing the best job of it. His eyes are wide with worry, his mouth stretched into an uneasy smile. I bet he didn't have that look on his face in the shower.

_It is over, _I say in my head, with the dramatic flourish of a woman wronged. Then I turn around to find Phil. Sweet Phil, who offered me his Pepsi on the beach and is not engaged to anyone.


End file.
